


Here Lies Gonou

by Ryxl



Category: Saiyuki
Genre: Angst, Character Development, Gen, Hallucinations, Nightmares, Suicide Attempt, Violence, self-inflicted harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-02-08
Packaged: 2017-11-28 15:41:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 85,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/676077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryxl/pseuds/Ryxl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever wondered what it would have taken to turn Cho Gonou the murderer into Cho Hakkai the Buddhist? </p><p>The month that happened between 'I heard this place burned down', 'here we are at the temple', and 'look Gojyo, I'm not dead'; companion piece to Waking The Dead by Kyanve. It's not pretty. It's an 80-plus-thousand-word bloody trainwreck of issues and angst, but it's complete and the last chapter meshes with the end of the flashback so at least it closes with a happy-ish note.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Close Your Eyes

The sight stops me in my tracks, disappointment almost a physical blow that knocks me to my knees and forces a howl of almost animal pain from my throat. The pile of charred timbers and rubble smokes slightly as though mocking me. I’d pushed myself for the greater part of the evening and the entire night, forcing myself not to collapse from the exertion. I know my wound’s re-opened; I can feel the blood soaking the bandage and starting to trickle down my belly. The memory of Kanan’s body is what spurred me on, kept me moving instead of collapsing and waiting for death to take me. I hadn’t wanted to have an audience for this, but Gojyo and that shady-looking monk haven’t given me a choice. They, and the kid who moves like lightning, have been following me since I first fled Gojyo’s house. I can hear them stop just behind me.

“I heard that this place burned down a few days ago,” the monk says coldly. “Nothing survived.”

No...that can’t be...I can’t have failed her again. Surely the world isn’t so completely without mercy? The dungeons were underground, surely they’re still intact. I feel as if Kanan is waiting for me, waiting for me to take her in my arms. A fragment of memory floats before me; Kanan is within the circle of my embrace, eyes closed. She is singing softly, one slender hand on my chest.

_~Even when it seems that nothing can go right and you want to just give up, if you close your eyes, you can see the world from your heart.~_

Her song. It echoes in my mind, and I can see her, smiling up at me in the sunlight. I close my eyes, hot tears streaming down my cheeks, but all I see is blackness. My right eye burns where my nails cut into the soft tissue around it. Kanan... I get shakily to my feet, and force myself across the clearing to the edge of the hill-sized pile of rubble. In the diffuse pre-dawn light, it could almost be a scene out of one of my nightmares.

_~In this world when life can be so tough, you must be strong. Just believe in yourself and don't you fear.~_

I must have heard that song, in bits and in its entirety, a thousand times. She would sing at odd corners of the day – a line while setting the table, a verse while hanging clothes. Now that the memory of her singing has started, it continues against my will. Be strong, eh? I can do that. I shrug off the exhaustion and ignore the way my legs are trembling, dropping to my knees to start digging through the rubble. The stones are still hot, a lot of it is sharp, and my hands are fast becoming a mess of cuts and scratches, but I don’t care. Kanan’s body is down there somewhere, and I will find it. Behind me, the kid asks something, and the monk answers in a gruff voice. I can’t make out the words over the pounding of blood in my ears and the whimpering sobs escaping my mouth. A drop of red hits my right hand, and for an instant I think I’m crying blood, but it’s only a tear that dissolved some of the dried blood on my face. I keep moving rubble, tossing it behind me and shouldering it aside, until the only bits I can reach are too big to move at all. Wordlessly, I scream out my anger at myself, and at the youkai who took her from me, beating the stones with my fists until Gojyo pulls me away.

“Oy, I know how you feel, but even if her body did survive...” He surveys the hill of ruined castle before us. “You could dig for a month and not get anywhere.”

I don’t look up from where I’m kneeling, shoulder and forehead against the warm, sooty stone. “I’m not leaving. Not until I’ve prepared her a grave or monument.” _I didn’t come all this way to fail her again._

Gojyo’s hand tightens around my shoulder in sympathy, and without a word he walks back to the monk and kid. Struggling to catch my breath, I start gathering smaller bits of stone in my arms. Over the clacking and my ragged breathing, I can hear him demand that the monk chant a sutra for Kanan, and the monk’s refusal.

“I only pray for the living,” he spits out derisively, then there’s a quiet rustling.

His shadow creeps towards me, and I sneak a sidelong glance towards them. The monk is sitting in the lotus position, sun rising directly behind him. Despite myself, I can’t help but be impressed with the sight. He begins chanting then, his voice strong and clear, rolling smoothly over the cadences as though they were written to be spoken only by him. I pause in my work, and the taunting memory of Kanan’s song trails off.

_~So open up your mind and close your eyes. Take another look from the other side.~_

Reflexively, I close my eyes as I always did at that line, never sure how I was supposed to look with my eyes shut. But in honor of her memory, I kneel with my eyes closed and let that voice roll over me; a vibrant ocean of strength and determination, of love and pain. That ocean fills me until I, too, am full of determination; my path stands clear before me and I know without doubt what it is that I must do. Slowly, I get to my feet again and resume gathering stones from the ruin of the castle, constructing a cairn over the last remnant of my life with Kanan. Soot and ash covers my hands, arms, and front, where it sticks to and hides the patch of dark wetness. The bandage is completely soaked; my wound is bleeding freely but I don’t care. My blood – my tainted sinner’s blood – is smeared on the rocks that I pile up slowly until they form a sturdy pile waist-high. The monk has stopped chanting and in silence I kneel before it, saying a prayer for Kanan and sending my feelings to her one last time. My hands are remarkably steady as I reach underneath my shirt, move aside the blood-soaked bandages, dig soiled fingers into the small opening there, and then with a jerk pull my hands apart. My dirty, tainted blood pours out onto the rocks as I hear surprised shouts from Gojyo and the monk, and then with the memory of Kanan’s song ringing hollowly inside me, the world is swallowed up by blackness like the inside of my heart.

_~Even on a lonely night, when you wander afraid, you may be alone now. But your feet can take you however far you want to go, so...~_

Kanan...this will be the last road I travel. I only hope that when I find you at the other end, you can forgive me for what I’ve become...  
  
            *********************************************************

 “If you ever pull a stunt like that again, I’ll kill you.”

There is a voice, full of anger. I know that voice. Where...? I open my eyes, and close them tightly as despair tears into me. I’m not dead. Why am I not dead? Kanan...I should be with Kanan. Instead, I have been propped in a sitting position against a tree. There is tight pain around my waist; my wound has been bandaged tightly. Someone stands up and grabs my chin firmly. When I open my eyes again, I’m staring straight into a pair of violet eyes that somehow aren’t as angry as they should be. The face recedes and it is the monk glaring at me, slightly out of focus.

“You are going to lie there and rest. My orders are to bring you back to the Temple of the Setting Sun ALIVE, you got that?”

I close my eyes and turn my head away, pulling out of the iron grip he has on my jaw. The monk makes a sound of disgust and stalks off. A moment later I can hear him yelling at the kid, and the kid yelling back. Kanan...what would you say if you could see me? My heart cries out, seeking some shred of comfort in a world that seems determined to be my own personal Hell. As though to prove the point, her song twists its way through my mind again.

_~Just hold on tight, because if you close your eyes...look inside yourself, there's a shining light there. Yes, I want you to believe in everything. You can take another look from the other side.~_

A shining light...I don’t see it. All I see is blackness. Right now, I can’t find the strength to believe in anything but my own failure to do anything right. The song won’t stop; I press my temple against the rough bark. I know the words that are coming, and there is no defense against them.

_~Just hold on tight, even if your heart is breaking. Reach into your soul, even if you can't see tomorrow. Yes, if you have the strength to live, you can take another look from the other side. Until you find all that is love...~_

The tears come again, hot down my left cheek, burning my right eye. How appropriate the words are, slicing as they do into my heart, still raw even after a month. It is not only my heart that is broken; my mind and body are also broken, and I can’t bring myself to want live to see tomorrow. Kanan...how am I supposed to find the strength to live without you here with me? That song, her song. All I have left of her, and it’s a lie. Love...I no longer believe that it can exist in the world that took Kanan away from me.

The rest of the day passes in a fog of depression. The monk glares at me almost all the time, and the kid just looks at me curiously. I stare dully back, obeying the monk’s biting directions sluggishly. I don’t care, the officials at the temple will surely sentence me to death and then he’ll be rid of me. The gods show me a small bit of mercy, at least. Whole hours pass without my knowing; awareness of my surroundings fades in and out and frees me from having to deal with the world around me.

The next few days pass in the same manner. I eat when the monk – Genjo Sanzo – tells me to eat, rest when he tells me to rest. I do not speak; I see no reason to, and spend my time looking blankly off into the distance, not meeting anyone’s eyes. I doubt I am really aware of things for more than five minutes of every hour, and it’s almost a surprise to find myself standing before the Temple of the Setting Sun. Genjo Sanzo doesn’t look very happy to be returning to his temple; either that, or my presence is a continuing irritation. The kid – I still don’t know his name, Genjo Sanzo only calls him ‘stupid monkey’ – is dashing up the steps cheerfully. The fog lifts slightly as I watch him vanish into the darkness of the temple’s entrance, and then Genjo Sanzo’s irritated voice orders me up the stairs. I climb slowly and steadily, a sort of peace settling into my heart. Soon, I will return to Kanan.

A temple functionary meets us at the entrance to the great hall where I will be sentenced. A muscular monk behind him holds a pair of shackles ready, and without a word I hold my arms out to have them clasped around me.

“That won’t be necessary.” Genjo Sanzo’s voice is brittle with annoyance.

I turn and look him in the eyes, something that seems to startle him. “It’s okay,” I say softly, my voice rusty from disuse. _I’m ready to die,_ my eyes say to him. _I’ll be out of your hair soon enough. I’m sorry for the inconvenience I’ve caused you._

Genjo Sanzo makes a sound of disgust. “Fine then, suit yourself.” He turns away as I’m being shackled, anger and irritation in every fiber of his body.

The functionary announces us, the door opens, and I calmly follow at the side of Genjo Sanzo, ready to meet my fate. There are dozens of high-ranking priests and monks kneeling on flat cushions in rows, and we walk down the center of them. I stop and kneel before the head of the temple, and Genjo Sanzo continues a step or two, then takes his place to my right, at the head of his row.

“Cho Gonou, you are brought before us today to answer for your crimes. You have killed two entire clans of youkai, numbering roughly one thousand in all. What excuse do you give for your actions?” The priest’s voice is thin but strong, and it rings in the corners of the room.

“None,” I say quietly. The assembled monks and priests murmur in surprise.

“Do you admit to these heinous actions and accept whatever sentence is given to you for your crimes?” His voice is suspicious, accusing.

“I do.” I look him in the eyes, ready to hear my sentence pronounced.

“Then for your crimes you will atone, through fasting and meditation, one day for each of your victims. You will spend each day meditating on one of the innocents you killed, and how they might have lived their lives had you not cut their days short.” There is a trace of pompousness in the tone; he is sentencing me to a slow death by self-inflicted starvation, and the others mutter approvingly.

I bow over my shackled wrists, about to voice my acceptance, when a vibrant, cold voice rings out.

“That’s hardly a fair sentence.” The monks and priests murmur again, and my eyes are drawn up to meet the glinting, angry amethyst of Genjo Sanzo’s eyes. “This man will die long before the thousand days are up.”

_Yes,_ I think at him. _Yes, I will die. Let me die._

“For sins as serious as his, he should suffer much more than a mere handful of days before his body gives out. Death would only be an escape for him; he should be made to live every day with the knowledge of what he’s done, and devote his life to atonement for his crimes.” That strong, clear voice is full of anger and those purple eyes glare reproachfully at me.

I bow my head before that righteous gaze and close my eyes with the song echoing again in my head, mocking me with words that contradict what my soul cries out for.

_~I wish for you to have the strength to make it through this world. So open up your mind, and you'll be able to see...~_

An argument washes over my head; the head of the temple and Genjo Sanzo are arguing over my fate; despair closes its fist around my heart. I am being denied death, denied my wish to be with Kanan again.

“Cho Gonou, hear your sentence!” The old man’s voice snaps me out of my fog and I raise my head. “Cho Gonou is hereby sentenced to immediate death. You, nameless one, will remain here as a lowly acolyte and purify yourself through atonement and abstinence. The honored Genjo Sanzo will be responsible for your actions, so mind you act appropriately to repay him for sparing your life. You will be under his care for one thousand days, or until he judges that you have atoned for your sins, at which time you will return here and be baptized with a new name to fit your new life.”

Numbly, I get to my feet as Genjo Sanzo moves past me, and follow in a daze.  
 

            *********************************************************

 

_~Just remember you are not alone, so don't you fear. Even though you're miles away, I'm by your side. So open up your mind and close your eyes. I'll be there for you no matter where you are.~_

I lay on my back on a narrow, hard cot in a simple stone cell, letting the cruel irony of my beloved’s song slice my worthless self to ribbons. In cells all around me, lesser monks sleep or meditate, but I lie awake with her song, her voice, echoing in the void of my soul. My eyes are closed and my attention is focused inwards, futilely following the commands of the memory of Kanan’s voice. The words mock me; I have never felt so alone, but I cling with the strength of despair to the last shred of happiness we once had.

_~The stars may live for a long time, but that doesn't mean that the same days will repeat over and over forever. No one can see into tomorrow.~_

A bitter laugh bursts out of me, and I stifle it with one fist before it turns to sobs. I never would have seen this tomorrow coming. Could you see it, Kanan? Would you still have chosen your path if you’d seen me lying here like this, with these rings of cold fire in my ear? These bits of arcane metal that preserve the lie of what I no longer am, stolen from the corpse of the thing I’ve become. Or were you able to see my fate, and was that the reason you did what you did?

_~Just hold on tight, because if you close your eyes, look inside yourself, you'll feel a heartbeat. Yes, I want you to believe in the future. You can take another look from the other side.~_

What future? What future do I have, could I possibly have? What reason does my heart have to continue to beat? Why should I bother to live?

_~Just hold on tight, even if your heart is breaking. Reach into your soul, even if you can't see tomorrow. Yes, there's another world out there. You can take another look from the other side, and you'll be able to find all that is love...~_

The burning in my right eye starts again and I clench my eyes shut, sobbing silently. It’s as though Kanan knew what would come; the words of her song slice me to ribbons with their biting mockery. What do I have to live for? What love could I possibly find in a world where I have become the thing that killed Kanan, and where the very man who sentenced me to life did it with cold anger in his eyes as he looked at me?

I’m looking, Kanan. But all I see is darkness.


	2. Warped Reflections

               I come awake with a start, breathing heavily, drenched in sweat. The silence in the night was no kinder to me than the previous day had been. Alone, in the darkness, I saw Kanan. Memories of her spun themselves into hallucinations spawned by the absence of light and sound; in helpless agony I saw her, happy memories suddenly twisting into her body lying cold and still on the floor of her cell. I’d tried to meditate, to empty my mind of all thoughts – if I’m supposed to purify myself in atonement, I may as well dedicate myself to the restrictions of the Buddhist faith and embrace the hardships it offers. I certainly don’t deserve a happy life, not after the way I failed Kanan. But the emptiness of meditation only served to remind me of how I now had nothing – no Kanan, no happiness, not even a name. That void in turn reminded me of what had happened to remove any reason for living, and then the hallucinatory memories would come again and I would relive the endless slaughter, the knowledge that I was killing my own humanity with each youkai that died at my hand, and the crushing weight of despair when it all came to nothing. My fingers press against my eyes and forehead as though I could press the images out of my head. My fingers, lengthening slowly, nails sharpening as my chi mutated from the lives I’d taken. The hands that she’d loved, now nothing more than instruments of death. And yet…if the change had taken place just a few minutes earlier, my new strength would have let me tear down the bars and free her…but I had become the very thing she killed herself to escape. Why would she have even looked at me? How could I think that somehow, miraculously, everything could be returned to the way it had been? I knew my chi had started to change before I’d found her cell. I knew that even if I had freed her, she could never look at me the same way again. And even if she had ignored that and seen me as still being human, any child… No. This is truly what hell must be like. I don’t even have any happy might-have-beens to console myself with.

               My right eye burns underneath its bandage as the tears come again, and in the grey light I hold my hands above me as I lie on my cot, and remember them turning into claws. The inhibitors that pierce my left ear make me look human – a lie, just like the rest of me. I begin to lower my hands to my face again, but stop. There is darkness under the nails of my right hand; carefully, I feel my face. The bandage is loose; I must have been picking at my eye in the night, during the horrible visions that refused to let me sleep. It is a cold, bitter satisfaction to know that I hate myself enough to try to harm myself even when I’m not consciously aware of it. I sigh and sit up slowly, to be confronted by a small tub of water, a folded towel, and a simple monk’s robe sitting on the small table and chair in my cell-like room. I blink and rub my left eye, but they do not vanish, and then the silence is shattered with a single cold, angry word.

               “Strip!” The honored Genjo Sanzo, my savior and jailer, stands just inside the door, arms crossed as though he wishes to have no contact with me.

               I get up and remove my clothes slowly, obeying resentfully, the apathy that had filled me for the last few days creeping back to dull the aches of my heart.

               “Wash!”

               The word cracks like a whip, and slowly, mockingly, I clean myself with the rough sponge in the small tub. I am very careful to avoid getting water in the bandages over my eye and the still-raw wound on my stomach, and finally pat myself dry with the coarse towel. I shoot a resentful glare over my shoulder at the monk watching me, and without being told to, wrap the simple robe around my body. Clean and clothed, I face him challengingly, and with a derisive snort he opens the door. The ever-cheerful kid is standing on the other side as though he’s been guarding the room. The monk sweeps right by him, the implied expectation that we will follow him evident in the arrogant stiffness of his back. The kid looks at me, shrugs, and hurries to catch up.

               “Hey, Sanzo, where are we going? Are we going into town? Will you buy me something to eat? You made me miss breakfast…”

               The happily oblivious chatter continues, but I tune it out as I follow slowly, apathy filling me once again. I am hungry, but I don’t particularly care. I’m supposed to be purifying myself and atoning, and abstaining from food seems like a good way to start that. Genjo Sanzo and his attendant are soon quite a bit ahead of me, and with an irritated scowl the monk stops and waits impatiently for me to catch up. Just before I catch up completely, however, he turns and stalks away as though he wishes to leave me behind. This pattern repeats several times as we pass through the cool stone corridors of the temple, down the great stairs, and into the dusty streets of the nearby city. I follow almost blindly, not knowing or caring where I am being led.

               He finally stops in front of what looks like a small, shabby shop in one of the poorer parts of the city. The shop master, a youkai man who looks to be about seventy, speaks quietly with my warden a minute. There is a murmured question, a curt, angry response, and the clink of money changing hands. The youkai turns to face me, while Genjo Sanzo glares at the back of his attendant’s head. The kid is looking longingly at a bakery a few doors down.

               “Goku!” The kid gives the bread a last, longing look, then turns to face the monk. “Stay here and make sure he-” Genjo Sanzo jerks a dismissive thumb in my direction, “-doesn’t go anywhere until the old man’s done with him. Then bring him along, and come find me.” His voice is arrogant, assuming. He orders the kid around casually, but the kid – Goku, I remind myself – just nods and takes up a guarding pose by the door to the shop. Without a backwards glance the monk stalks off, and the old youkai beckons me into the shop.

               There is one room inside, a single examining table in the middle and a handful of well-worn chairs lined up against a wall. The youkai instructs me to sit on the table and I hoist myself carefully up, wound protesting as I do so.

               “Let’s take a look at that, shall we?” The old youkai’s voice is cracked and dry, but his eyes are bright and his fingers nimble as he parts the folds of my robe and peels the bandages off. The open red mouth scowls at me, no longer the clean cut it was originally. The youkai tsk-tsks at the sight and runs one careful finger around the red, irritated skin. “This isn’t going to heal nicely; you’re going to have an ugly scar. Not that you care.”

               His words cut through my apathy and I look at him in shock. How did he know that? Truthfully, I almost want my body to be covered in ugly scars so that my worthlessness and misery can be seen by all. The doctor looks up at me slyly.

               “’How did he know that?’ That’s what you’re thinking.” His hand is surrounded by a nimbus of green chi, and I can feel the edges of the gash knitting themselves slowly into a thick scar. “Not all wounds bleed where they can be seen, or where my healing energies can reach. But I know they’re there.” He gestures with his other hand, and I glance down and notice that he is no longer touching my skin, but the green chi is clearly closing the wound. “Contact with any other living person brings the possibilities for healing, but at the cost of learning things you may not have wished to know.”

               The last open bits creep together and fuse into a thick, angry red scar. I watch it in distracted fascination, the old man’s words swirling in my head. I get the feeling there’s more there that he’s not telling me, something I’m supposed to realize on my own.

               “Let’s look at that eye now.” His voice is calm, nonchalant, as though he has not just knocked me off balance.

               I close my eyes as his hands reach up and peel the bandage off of my eye, and I hear him tsk-tsk again at what’s beneath. I wonder how badly I’ve damaged it; the lid doesn’t feel right, my eye feels strange. I suddenly don’t want to know what it looks like.

               “Well, this can’t be healed.” There is a sort of hesitation in the words, as though the youkai doctor is speaking a half-truth. “Open, please.”

               I open my eyes and look at the old youkai, but he’s slightly out of focus. I remember suddenly that when I’d first woken up after having tried to kill myself, Genjo Sanzo had been out of focus. I blink and squint, trying to make those youkai eyes staring into mine be less fuzzy, but there’s still something off. The doctor turns and wanders into a back room, and I can hear him rummaging around. He returns a few minutes later with something that glints metallic.

               “Close your eyes, please.”

               I shut my eyes, and feel him slide something cool over the bridge of my nose and along the right side of my head by my eye. His fingertips rest gently just above and below my eye.

               “And open, please.” I open my eyes and there is a moment of disorientation, a flash of green in the edges of my sight, and then my vision is crisp and clear. “There you go. You’ll have to wear this to correct your vision, so be careful with it.” Again, his words sound like he’s withholding something, but the strange weight on my face distracts me from examining them more closely. “We’re done here,” he calls to the door, and Goku opens it cautiously as I slide off the table and make my way distractedly towards the exit.

               Goku leads me unerringly through the narrow streets and carts and store-fronts. I wonder how he knows where to go, but mentally shrug it off. I don’t really care, nor am I obligated to. Atoning for my sins and paying the proper respect to Genjo Sanzo for sparing my life are my only responsibilities, and the interactions between the monk and the kid don’t fall into that. Goku turns smoothly into a shabby little tavern, and there at a table in the back is Genjo Sanzo, with the remnants of about half a dozen drinks before him.

               “Hey, Sanzo, can I eat now?” Goku is begging like a puppy.

               Genjo Sanzo drains his glass and glares at us both, irritated. The unmistakable scent of alcohol wafts by, and I realize that this high-ranking monk has drunk half a dozen glasses of alcohol in the few minutes the youkai doctor spent healing me. A little astonished, I examine Genjo Sanzo for evidence of impairment.

               “Here, go buy something to eat. Meet me back at the temple later,” Sanzo growls at the kid, handing him a few coins. His speech is crisp, his hands steady, and his eyes clear. What sort of tolerance does he have, anyway? He drops a few more coins on the table and stands up abruptly, stalking out of the tavern arrogantly as though he expects me to follow, but doesn’t care if I do or not. Goku babbles his gratitude and dashes off; I follow Genjo Sanzo after a moment. He is waiting for me across the street when I get out of the tavern, arms crossed sullenly and a cigarette in his mouth. He looks me over with distaste and impatience as I cross over to him.

               “Doc give you that for your eye?” He gestures vaguely towards the eyepiece on my face, his tone and posture announcing that the bit of metal and glass may as well be a personal affront to him.

               “Yes, honored Genjo Sanzo,” I respond with a slight, mocking bow, my words as submissive and respectful as I can make them and still twist them into sardonic mockery. The monk’s expression of distaste deepens into obvious disgust and his face gets a pinched look, as though a foul smell has invaded his holy nostrils. I meet his disgusted gaze with a sullen and slightly challenging glare of my own.

               “Don’t call me that!” Genjo Sanzo spits out suddenly, as angry as when he first sentenced me to life. “Just ‘Sanzo’ if you must call me anything at all.”

               I blink in surprise at the vehement way I’ve just been told to call my ‘savior’ by an informal title. “Er…alright…Sanzo.” I realize I’m babbling and shut up, but it seems to have mollified the monk.

               “That’s better,” he snaps at me, and starts off briskly for the temple.

               I hurry to catch up, distracted by how my world seems to have been shattered and rebuilt upside-down. The things I had taken for granted seem to have warped in some way, and I feel as though there is a world of comprehension just outside of my grasp. Whatever it is, it continues to elude me because when we reach the temple, Sanzo breezes through it hurling short explanations at me like verbal darts, and I have to concentrate on remembering where everything is so that I don’t get lost.

   
            *********************************************************  
 

                “...and that’s the kitchen. You missed dinner, so if you need to eat, you can grab something here.” Sanzo’s cold, angry voice clings to him as though not even his words want to touch me.

               “Dinner?” I blurt out stupidly. “But...I thought it was morning...” On top of everything else that’s happened, this revelation completely knocks me off my mental feet.

               Sanzo looks at me strangely. “It’s close to sundown.” _Obviously,_ his tone implies. _What kind of idiot are you?_

               “I see.” I keep my voice empty of emotion, give Sanzo a stiff, formal bow, and remove myself from his presence. I can almost feel his glare following me down the hall.

               I keep moving smoothly until I get to my cell and the door shuts behind me. Once I am alone in my little room, I collapse onto the cot. Night. I start shaking, and I can’t make it stop. I thought the night had already passed. My thoughts flick over the nightmares and hallucinations I’d suffered for what seemed like an eternity. How many hours was that? Two, four, six? And instead of having a full day to recover, now I am faced with that same ordeal almost immediately. I wrap my arms around myself and curl into a ball, shuddering and trying not to make any noise that could be heard from the hall. As though my mind were taunting me, I remember Kanan’s comforting voice and almost feel her arms around me. All at once, the pain of her death slams into me, as vivid as the day she died, and I find myself weeping uncontrollably, smothering my sobs with the thin blanket provided to me. There is no relief brought by expressing my grief, however.

               When the shaking stops and I can think again, I feel worse, not better. I am emotionally wrung out, my throat is raw, and as a whole I am without the energy to even be miserable. Empty, that’s what I am. A worthless, empty thing. No energy, but not tired either. Not unhappy, but not content. I leave my cell quietly, drifting down the empty corridor like a ghost. No past, no future, no present, no name. I wonder what time it is; this portion of the temple is below ground and there are no windows. No one else is around – the corridor is empty, like me.

               I wander aimlessly for a time, feeling the cool stone beneath my bare feet. That faint chill seems to fill me until that’s all I am: a chill ghost. A roving bit of cold air. The idea amuses me slightly, and a ghost of a smile drifts across my face.

               Some time later, I find myself before a large, ornate double door. One side is ajar, so I peek inside. It’s the Grand Hall. Rows of flat cushions line the floor, leading up to the Buddha statue at the head of the hall. Easily twenty feet high and carved of a rich, brown stone, the slender figure in the lotus position beams at me. The hall is dim, but not dark. White candles as thick as my forearm burn in brass stands on either side of the statue. Silently, I pad down the aisle and select a cushion some few rows from the front and directly before one of those great tapers. I kneel easily and focus on the candle flame, allowing my mind to empty of all thoughts.

               Mindfulness. The candle flickers; I see it. Awareness of sight. A soft rustle; I hear it. Awareness of hearing. My chest is tight from weeping; I feel it. Awareness of feeling. I am not any particular thing; I simply am. I am the moment. Mindfulness.

               Between the stillness in my mind and the not-quite-silence around me, I find myself in a light trance. Tentatively, I allow myself to think of one of the youkai I’d killed. The memory surfaces, and I am detached from it. Mindfulness. I examine the memory from every angle, looking objectively at what I was feeling then and how it makes me feel now.

               _A young male stands protectively over a young female. Probably newlyweds or sweethearts. “Stay away!” Fear, anger, desperation. He rushes at me; my knife flashes and he is on the ground, writhing in agony as his entrails boil out of the wound I’d made._

               _Did I want to kill him?_ No, I didn’t. I would have let him and the female go; seeing them together reminded me of myself and Kanan. _Why did I kill him?_ Self-defense. I pause. No, that’s not true. Seeing them together made me feel jealousy and rage. I wanted them to die because they were alive and together, while my Kanan had been taken from me and I did not know if she was still alive. I wanted them to suffer because I was suffering; I wanted them to suffer because they were youkai of the clan that had abducted Kanan. I wanted them to suffer, and that’s why I did not kill them cleanly.

               I open my eyes and focus on the flickering candle flame and my breathing. My legs are cramping, but I only welcome the pain. Monster...I am a monster. I deserve this pain. The desperate look on the youkai man’s face haunts me. I deserve more than just this pain; if every bone in my body were broken and the rest of my life were spent in complete agony, it still wouldn’t be enough to atone for the sins I committed in cold blood. I murdered innocents; I maimed women and children and let them die slowly. I killed their husbands and brothers and sons in front of them. Innocents, strangers who probably had no connection to Kanan’s abduction, and I slaughtered them for no better reason than because they were there.

               I don’t know how long I sat there, wallowing in my worthlessness. There were rustles behind me, but no sound of anyone entering the room. My legs had long since gone numb when the sounds of someone entering the hall caught my attention.

               “You see, honored Genjo Sanzo? There he is!” The thin, trembling voice of some monk.

               “I see him. What about it?” Sanzo’s voice is full of irritation, but at me or at the other monk, I’m not sure.

               “He is...he is...” The other monk comes into view and points at me accusingly where I kneel, still looking at the candle.

               “I am meditating on the lives that ended because of my actions. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to be doing?” My voice is remarkably mild, considering how much I loathe myself right now.

               Sanzo comes into my field of vision, glaring at the other monk with a look that should kill him. “Well? Doesn’t look like there’s a problem. What’d you wake me up for?” His voice lashes the other man like a whip.

               A whip. My mind catches that thought and replays it. Yes, whipping myself should make me suffer enough for now.

               “But Genjo Sanzo...perhaps he should find some other place to meditate?” The whining voice begs Sanzo to agree with him.

               “Why, what’s wrong with right here?” The frigid words impact almost visibly against the trembling monk. “This is where everyone else comes to meditate, isn’t it?”

               “But it’s disgraceful!” The nameless monk tries again.

               “What’s disgraceful about it?” Sanzo is getting angrier; I almost expect him to strike the other monk.

               “It’s unseemly that such violent thoughts should be brought into the Buddha’s presence!” The thin voice is full of smug self-assurance.

               He’s right, I should not be here. I don’t deserve to meditate in such luxurious surroundings. I can see Sanzo’s eyes narrow and his mouth begin to open. “My apologies,” I cut off whatever Sanzo had been about to say and stand up stiffly, bowing to Sanzo and the other monk. “I will remove my unworthy thoughts from the Buddha’s presence.” I walk quietly out of the Grand Hall, ignoring the two monks behind me.

               I wander back through the halls until I find my cell, and slip on the simple sandals that Sanzo brought me...how long ago? Now shod, I make my way outside the temple. The air is slightly chill, and the night is pale. Dawn can’t be far off. My stomach complains, but I ignore it. I don’t deserve to eat, not after the way I killed babies in front of their mothers.

               There are many gardens of varying sizes and designs, but they are all too good for me. I work my way methodically through them until I find one that’s tiny, no more than an alcove, and choked with vines. There is a statue of Buddha there, no more than two feet tall and almost hidden beneath mostly-dead vines. Perfect. Isolated, run-down, and the tiny thorns on the vines should make them adequate for whipping myself with. Reverently, I clear the dead vines from the Buddha and drape the live ones elsewhere. As the first rays of light creep over the walls, I slip my arms out of the simple robe covering me and let it fall around my waist like a thick, double skirt. My hands tremble slightly as I twist the dead vines into a crude flail and experimentally flick it over my shoulders. The tiny thorns catch in my skin with mildly painful pricks, and I drag the vines forward over my shoulder. It feels like half of them have caught in my skin, and tug against it as they are pulled. Some half of those let go, but the others cling and I can feel miniscule cuts as I drag the vines back over my shoulder. Encouraged, I flip the vines more vigorously onto my back, and am rewarded with sharp points of actual pain, and deeper scratches. Again I whip myself with the vines, falling into an almost meditative rhythm as I figure out the best way to flip them over my shoulder and pull them across my back so as to inflict the most damage.

               After a while, I can feel the trickle of liquid down my back. As it does not sting in my self-inflicted cuts, I assume it to be blood and set my improvised flail aside. After a moment’s thought, I carefully drape live vines over it to hide it from view. My back a network of burning cuts, I kneel before the Buddha statue and resolutely focus on the throbbing in my back and the sharp panting of my breathing, emptying my mind until I am nothing but the awareness of my pain. When the mild agony fills my entire being, I once again summon the memories of the youkai I killed. In harsh detail I watch again as I senselessly slaughter them, whipping my soul with the petty, selfish reasons and emotions I’d felt while killing them. A distracted, separate portion of my mind directs my arms to pull my robe around my torso again and tie it in place, and then it quietly sinks into the sea of blood and misery that I’ve invoked.

               There is a hand on my shoulder. I start out of my bloody trance and notice that judging by the Buddha’s shadow, it must be close to midday. I twist my head around to see whose hand it is, and find myself looking into the somehow pensive face of Genjo Sanzo.

               “So, this is where you’ve been.” There is accusation and some surprise in his voice.

               I turn my gaze back to the worn Buddha. “Its run-down imperfection is more suitable for a detestable sinner like me.” I try to keep my voice dispassionate, but the sharp edge of my self-loathing creeps into it anyway.

               “You didn’t have to leave the main temple, you know.” The words are still irritated, but there is a sort of apology in them. It must have been that other monk, then, that Sanzo was irritated at.

               “I didn’t want my actions to reflect badly upon you,” I dismiss the incident. “I’m supposed to be showing you the proper respect. After all, you’re responsible for my actions.”

               There is a snort of derision. “You’re hardly going to affect my reputation.”

               Slight amusement in the tone, and some mockery. Of who, I wonder? I laugh, a sharp, bitter sound. “I’m a sinner and an abomination. You’re the holy Genjo Sanzo. How am I not going to be a stain on your reputation?” I openly mock myself with my words.

               Sanzo makes a cynical sound. “About as holy as...” he mutters, but does not finish the sentence.

               “Not that you should care whether your fellow monks like me or not,” I interrupt sharply, my voice hard. “I’m just alive so that I can suffer, right?” I turn and fix him with an accusing glare, lashing out in anger. “Isn’t that why you spared my life?” The stricken look that crosses Sanzo’s face is not what I was expecting.

               “No,” he says softly, and I can hear pain in his voice.

               Unsettled by this strange vulnerability, I turn away from the monk. “There’s no other reason for me to be alive,” I say quietly, disarmed by the unexpected change in Sanzo.

               “I couldn’t leave you like that.” Apology, and wistfulness?

               Despite the emotional pain I’ve been rehashing for the better part of the morning, that vaguely helpless tone cuts deeper than I would have thought possible. “It’s what I wanted.” The words are out of my mouth before I realize I’ve said them, and there is a long moment of strained silence that’s broken by a bell tolling.


	3. Cracks Behind Their Eyes

               “Don’t bother looking for a place to sit. We’re not staying.” Sanzo’s tone is both disgusted and detached, but for once it doesn’t seem to be directed at me.

               The bell that signals lunch is still tolling in the distance.  I look around the large room at the crowd of monks and priests sitting at tables or in clusters on cushions. The few that are looking back at me do so with contempt and accusation. One high-ranking priest in particular meets my eyes; his gaze flickers down to the loaded plate I’m holding, then over to Sanzo, then back to my plate and up to my eyes again. The message is clear.

               “Then where shall I carry your plate?” I ask in a vaguely challenging voice, shifting my own meal to one hand and holding the other out in a mild demand.

               Sanzo frowns as he looks at my hand; he glances at the priest who’d made eye contact with me, and his frown deepens further. With a muttered “Whatever,” he hands his plate to me and stalks out.

               I follow silently as Sanzo winds his way through courtyards and gardens, finally stopping at a small lily-pond with a willow for shade. Sanzo seats himself on the bank, and I return his plate to him. I give him as low a bow as I can manage without spilling my own food, and turn to leave him in peace.

               “Where are you going?” The tone holds the implication that I better not take another step until I’ve given a satisfactory answer.

               “I thought I’d return to my cell. Isn’t that what would be proper?” I try to maintain a casual tone, but a trace of sarcasm creeps in. I turn back to look at Sanzo, and find him watching me.

               “’Proper’ is not exactly a concern of mine.” The words are heavy with anger and disdain.

_~You didn’t have to leave the main temple, you know. ~_

_~For sins as serious as his, he should suffer much more than a mere handful of days before his body gives out.~_

               “I wouldn’t want to disturb your meal,” I reply snidely, remembering the look of cold anger in his eyes as he sentenced me to life.

               “You’re not disturbing anything.” Impatience and annoyance belie the words.

               There is a long moment of tense silence while we look at each other; Sanzo is waiting to see what I do, and I’m trying to reconcile the unexpected consideration of his words with the harsh anger of his tone. Finally, I give a stiff bow.

               “As you wish, _Sanzo._ ” I twist the name into a mockery of the title it is, and seat myself on the bank roughly ten feet from the monk. I still haven’t figured out if he actually wanted me to stay or not, so by keeping my distance I should be safe either way.

               Sanzo seems unhappy with me; I can see him glaring at me out of the corner of my eye. Ignoring him, I turn my attention to my food and the raging inner debate it’s spawned. My body desperately needs the sustenance; I haven’t eaten at all in the last day. My heart, however, tells me that even this simple food is more than a monster like me deserves. I pick at the meal for a few moments before my brain suggests a compromise. I will eat just enough to sustain me; that way I can continue to have the strength to inflict injury on myself but at the same time never eat enough to satisfy my body. Decision made, I begin eating slowly.

               I stop eating when roughly a third of my meal remains. Sanzo hasn’t said a word during this time, and neither have I. Carefully, I get to my feet and begin walking back to the main building.

               “Where are you going?” Sanzo’s voice tries to sound accusing, but there is an undertone of panic. I turn to face him, and he quickly continues, “...not that I care to follow you, but I want to know where to look if they decide they need to know where you are again.”

               The tone is now cold and derisive, but I know I heard that panic. Sanzo must have realized what he sounded like, and used a harsher tone to cover it up. Does he always do that?

               “I’m returning my plate,” I reply coolly. “Shall I take yours back, as well?”

               Sanzo glances down at the object in question; it looks like be barely ate anything. “May as well,” he mutters, and hands it over.

               I take the still-full plate and begin walking again. A thought strikes me, and I stop. “If my presence won’t sully the books too badly,” I casually toss over my shoulder, my words blatantly mocking myself, “I might look at the library.”

               “Go ahead.” Sanzo’s voice is a jumble of emotions too complex to unravel.

               I begin tracing my path back to the dining hall, pausing part of the way there to scrape all the uneaten food onto one plate. Once I get there, I have to ask where the compost heap is, and get a small lecture on not wasting food along with directions.

               Uneaten food on the compost heap and dishes in the kitchen, I wander through the temple in search of the library. It’s mostly deserted at this time of day; only a few scholarly monks are scattered here and there. They look up briefly and then ignore me. I wander the stacks for a few minutes, tempted by the titles that peek out. Purifying and atonement, I remind myself, and resolutely select a manuscript of the Noble Eightfold Path. There are numerous little nooks for reading, and I settle in one of them to take a long look at what remains of my life, and what I’m going to do with it.

               Right View. The understanding of things the way they are, the realization of the Four Noble Truths. Understand that all beings are subject to suffering...suffering is caused by desire...I wrench my train of thought away from my own desires, and the suffering they are bringing me. There will be time enough to contemplate those once night comes again. All beings are subject to suffering...

_~I couldn’t leave you like that ~_

               Sanzo’s words echo in my mind. There is some pain there, something in his past that I do not understand. I am a stranger to him, a sinner that deserves death. Why does my misery bring him suffering? I turn the question over in my head for a few minutes, then set it aside. Perhaps I can ask one of the other monks later.

               Right Intention. The intention to resist the pull of desire. The intention to resist feelings of anger or aversion. The intention to not think or act in a cruel, violent, or aggressive manner. I’ll need to work on this one quite a bit. Is the desire to cause one’s self suffering still a desire that must be resisted? Yes, I decide, but I’ll work on that one later. I mull over the other two, and decide that as long as I resist anger, cruelty, violence, and aggression towards other people, I’ll allow them towards myself. They will be the tools I use to remind myself that I am imperfect, and strengthen my resolve to act correctly to everyone else.

               Right Speech. To speak the truth, to speak gently, to speak in a warm and friendly manner, and to speak only when necessary. Another one I’ll have to work at. The last bit won’t give me any trouble, but speaking in a warm and friendly manner is going to be more difficult. I make a mental note to ignore the tone of anything said to me, and try to reply only to the words.

               Right Action. Abstain from harming sentient beings. Abstain from taking any life, including your own. Guilt shoots through me briefly, but I squash it with the resolution that for me, life is just an opportunity to suffer more. Abstain from doing harm either through action or inaction. Abstain from taking what has not been given...that one won’t be a problem; I can’t think of a single thing that I would want to own right now. Abstain from sexual misconduct. I laugh softly, a bitter sound. I’m not likely to ever engage in any sort of sexual conduct now that Kanan’s gone, so there’s no chance of misconduct. The only part here I need to work on is not harming other sentient beings. The guilt resurfaces, and I find myself remembering the stricken look on Sanzo’s face. I push it aside.

               Right Livelihood. To not make one’s living in any way that would violate the principles of Right Speech and Right Action, such as selling live beings, weapons, or harmful compounds. Well, if I ever get the opportunity to make my own living, I’ll keep this one in mind.

               Right Effort. The prevention and abandonment of unwholesome states, and the encouragement and maintaining of wholesome states. If I ever renounce my desire to cause myself suffering, I promise myself, I will embrace Right Effort. Until then...

               Right Mindfulness. Observe both what happens around one’s self, and what happens inside one’s mind. Base perceptions on observation, not conjecture. My eyes unfocus and I try to replay my interactions with Sanzo and look at them objectively. The scene in the Grand Hall...was Sanzo actually irritated there? Yes, I think he was. At whom or what was he irritated? The other monk, no doubt about it. Sanzo’s eyes never met my own, and his words and tone both defended me. I jump to Sanzo finding me in the small garden, and wince as the guilt triumphantly crushes me. I can not believe that Sanzo had any intention of being aggressive there, which makes my outburst unforgivable. That admission destroys the objectivity I’d used to keep my mind and heart separate, and my thoughts degenerate into a dark vortex of self-loathing.

               A monk passes by me, and I snap myself back into awareness of my surroundings. There is one more portion of the Eightfold Path; I turn my attention back to my manuscript.

               Right Concentration. Concentration is a part of consciousness, granted at a low intensity. All one’s energies and faculties unified and directed at one object. Something teases the back of my mind, some revelation struggling to be born. The practice of intensifying the level of concentration brought about by meditation.

               Energies unified and directed...the memory of the youkai doctor surfaces. He focused his chi and intensified the natural healing of my body. The revelation trembles on the edge of my awareness; I empty my mind in an attempt to lure it out where I can look at it. Instead, I about jump out of my skin when a bell rings somewhere close by, and continues tolling. I replace the manuscript on its shelf and find a window. I have been sitting in contemplation longer than I’d thought; it’s dinner time.

               I make my way back to the dining hall, going slowly to try to find Sanzo. By the time I get there, however, I still haven’t seen him. I wait patiently for him until it seems like he and I are the only ones not serving themselves or eating, but there’s still no sign of him. The same high-ranking priest from lunch is looking at me oddly. Right speech, I remind myself. I compose my face into a mask of neutrality and approach him in as respectful a manner as possible.

               “Yes?” He asks curtly.

               “Pardon my interruption, honored one,” I keep my voice carefully mild. “I am looking for the honored Genjo Sanzo.”

               “Well, don’t do it empty-handed,” he admonishes me. “Give him the respect he deserves. As your savior, the least you could do is spare him the walk here.” Accusing and pompous, he looks down his nose at me for a few more seconds.

               I bow to him and he turns away. So I should being Sanzo food? Somehow I feel that the other priests and monks want me to be a servant to him. Well, I can do that. I carefully load two plates with food and set out in search of my savior. He’s not in his room or any of the other places I think he might be. I’m reduced to checking the courtyards and gardens methodically, and I finally find him...right where I left him. He sits in the same spot on the bank of the lily pond, deep in thought, not noticing me until I carefully sit a few feet away – close enough to hand him one of the two plates but not crowding him.

               He looks up with a start as I enter his peripheral vision, and mutely takes the plate from me. His gaze drops to the slightly cooled food as though he’s not really seeing it, and after a moment he starts picking halfheartedly at it. There is silence for a few minutes while I slowly eat my own dinner. I was careful to only take about the amount I ate at lunch, so that I wouldn’t waste food. When I am done, however, Sanzo’s meal has barely been touched. Not harming others through inaction...

               “Sanzo?” I let a bit of concern into my voice.

               He looks up at my unthreatening tone and seems to snap out of his daze. “I’m fine. I’m not hungry.” The words hold a trace of resigned irritation, as though he’s said it often in the past.

               “You should eat more than that. You barely touched lunch.” I’m careful to make it a gentle reprimand instead of an accusation.

               “I wasn’t hungry then, either,” he replies sourly, and he looks at me reproachfully.

               “What shall I tell them, then, when I bring your plate back still full?” The words are sharper than I’d intended; Sanzo’s unspoken accusation stings. “That my presence turned your stomach?” Frustration colors my tone, but I’m not sure if it’s directed at Sanzo or at myself.

               Sanzo looks away. “It has nothing to do with you. I’ve always been this way.”

               The apology and repressed pain in Sanzo’s voice slaps me out of my petty frustration. I focus on the set of his shoulders, the tone of his voice, and try to see beyond my own emotional response. Sanzo’s shoulders are hunched as though he expects violent words or actions, and I suddenly feel a desire to spare him any further confrontation over this. I reach out and scrape a good portion of the food from his plate to mine. He looks up at me with a very startled expression, and I meet his eyes with a look that announces my intent to pretend that the portion of food in question had been eaten by him, and that what was on my plate was the result of my own diminished appetite. I drop my eyes to my plate and stir the food to make it look picked at.

               “If you keep that up, you’ll put a hole in your stomach,” I say quietly, not looking up. The sensation of being concerned for another person causes my heart to ache, as though it were a half-healed wound. I carefully do not look at Sanzo, as though I could pretend that I am speaking to nobody in particular.

               “I’ll get sick anyway, if I eat this.”

               Sanzo’s voice is as soft as mine is, and that repressed pain cuts into me with an almost physical pang. I wonder again why my suffering seemed to cause him pain, and why he’s opening up like this to someone who’s caused him nothing but pain and trouble. Whatever the reason, his vulnerability has cut through my shields of misery and anger. _You’re supposed to be responsible for my actions,_ I think at his reflection in the still surface of the pond. _So why do I feel like I’m responsible for you?_

               “What should I bring you, next time?”

               Sanzo’s reflection grimaces. “A drink.”

               My concern twists into hurt anger. I brought myself to feel compassion for _this?_

 “Just one?” I ask sharply, mentally tossing the idea of Right Speech away.

               “I wouldn’t want to piss them off _too_ much.” Sanzo’s tone is also sharp, stiff with sarcasm.

               “And what sort of drink does my honored savior require?” My voice is equally sarcastic, and I fix him with a disgusted look.

               “What ever you can sneak past the monks,” he replies with a snort, glaring at a hapless lily.

               “And if I bring you food,” I lash out mockingly, “will you eat it? Or will you just drink yourself sick?”

               Sanzo’s glare softens to a resigned stare. “If I have something to drink, I’ll eat.” The aggression and sarcasm drains out of him almost visibly, and he stares moodily at the lily pond.

               Why is it that losing my temper just now made me feel like more of a monster than the slaughter of innocent youkai did? I gather up the plates and walk away, Sanzo’s silence following me long after I’ve left.

            I have to pass through the kitchen to get to the compost heap. One of the higher-ranking priests is supervising the monks who are cleaning up from dinner, and he stops me as I pass through.

               “You’re the one in the care of Genjo Sanzo” It’s obvious that he disapproves of me, but at least he’s being civil despite it.

               “Yes, honored one,” I answer politely.

               He surveys the two plates I’m carrying. “One of those his?” He gestures towards the half-eaten meals.

               I nod. “He said he wasn’t very hungry.”

               The priest grunts noncommittally and waves me by. I scrape the uneaten food onto the compost heap, deposit the dirty dishes on a counter full of the same, and seek out the priest again.

               “Hm? What is it?” He doesn’t seem to be very bothered by my sheer presence, which is somewhat of a relief.

               “I was wondering what else I might do to show my gratitude to the honored Genjo Sanzo.” I’m being overly formal, but it seems to be what’s expected of me.

               The priest’s eyebrows raise and he seems to be trying not to look as though he approves. “Tidy his room – sweep the floor, change the bed, clean anything that looks dirty. Do you know where the laundry is?”

               I shake my head no, and he gives me directions. Bowing, I excuse myself. The laundry is my first stop – I pick up clean bedclothes and a broom, and head over to Sanzo’s room. He’s not in his room when I get there, and I cringe at the thought of him still sitting on the bank of the lily-pond, brooding. I must have really hurt him to have sent him into such a depression. Tomorrow, I vow, I’ll whip myself again in penance. The pain will remind me to not do anything that would cause harm to anyone else. I straighten a few things in Sanzo’s room, then sweep it thoroughly. Once the floor has been swept, I change the bedclothes and bring the old ones and the broom back to the laundry. I glance out of a window there, and notice that it’s getting dark out.

               I make my way back to the lily-pond, and am dismayed to see that Sanzo hasn’t moved from the spot. I stop in the archway, and a spot of light on the stone next to me catches my attention. I turn slightly to look at it, and it moves as my head turns. Of course! A reflection from my eyepiece. I’d forgotten all about it. A small smile of amusement stretches across my lips, but it dies as I look back at the still figure on the bank of the pond.

               “Sanzo?” I call softly.

               He starts, then slowly stands up and turns towards me.

               “It’s getting dark,” I state the obvious, trying to keep my tone gently encouraging. “You should go inside and get some sleep.”

               Sanzo sighs and slowly crosses the small garden to where I am. He stops and looks at me critically for a moment.

               “You, too,” he says tiredly, and moves past me.

               I watch for a minute to make sure Sanzo is going inside, and then I head off to find the baths. When I get there, they’re abandoned. I fill a small tub with cold water, take a rough sponge and coarse towel, and bring them to one of the wooden bathing cubbies. After a moment’s thought, I also fetch a clean robe from the pile on a table. I mindfully wash myself, acknowledging the chill water and rough texture of the sponge on my skin as I scrub myself harshly, and the mildly burning pain on my back, which I wash more gently. I pat my back dry, pleased that there is no tell-tale blood on either the towel or the inside of my robe, and change into the clean robe. The dirty one and the towel go into a large basket by the tables, and I pour the water down a drain in the floor.

               Clean and clothed, I make my way through the quiet temple, hair dripping very so often down my neck. Finally, I come to the door of my cell. The doors in this corridor are all similar – heavy wood, no lock or latch, and a small windowpane so that one can see if the room’s occupant is inside. The other doors have little name plates on them, however, and mine is blank. I step inside and close the door behind me, pausing to let my eyes adjust to the darkness.

               A figure in the corner furthest from me catches my attention.

               “Gonou?”

               My blood turns to ice and pain tears into me like a youkai’s claws. Kanan’s voice, heartbreakingly familiar and pleading. The figure takes an awkward step forward, and I can see Kanan’s familiar form – but her skin is drained, pale. Her dead eyes look around blindly, and dried blood spills from the wound in her throat, covering her chest and hands.

               “Where are you, Gonou?”

               The apparition takes another uncertain step towards me, hands outstretched, eyes blankly surveying the small room. The pleading tone breaks my heart.

               “Why won’t you answer me?”

               That impossible voice sounds hurt and confused by my silence. My pulse jumps, my hands nervously crawl across the surface of the door behind me. My breath comes in short gasps, and my thoughts run in tight circles.

               “What kind of man _are_ you, Gonou?”

               The voice is accusing, now. The dead eyes look directly at me. The cold, bloody hands reach for me, threatening and pleading all at the same time. Something breaks inside me. I bolt down the hall, not bothering to close the door behind me. The only sounds I hear are my panicky breaths and the slapping of my sandals against the stone. There is no room in my head for rational thought; I am just running blindly, like an animal. I am vaguely aware of collapsing; of the small Buddha statue in front of me, of vines behind it, of cold grass on my cheek. Somewhere along the line, my panting breaths have turned to sobs. I curl up into a fetal position and weep brokenly until darkness takes away the pain and there is nothing.


	4. Setting Patterns

               Light strikes my closed eyelids, triggering consciousness. I open my eyes.

               “Why did you stay out all night like that?”

               The ceiling is blank and smooth, just like the words.

               “Did I?” My mind is a swirl of jumbled thoughts. The words slip out while I am trying to sort out where I am, and whose voice that was.

               “Yes.” The word is sharp and final. “I found you passed out, this morning.” Sanzo’s tone struggles to regain its forced neutrality.

               “What time is it now?” I’m stalling for time, trying to reassemble what happened last night.

               “Almost noon.” The words are almost aggressive in their neutrality.

               I flinch and sit up, bringing my hands to my face. The fingers of my right hand encounter metal and glass instead of my temple. Absently, I remove the eyepiece and set it gently on the blanket covering me, then rub my eyes resignedly. I remember running from the hallucination of Kanan’s specter. I remember the little Buddha statue, and the feel of grass beneath my check. Almost noon. The guilt sinks claws into me, and a feeling of worthlessness bleeds out of the wounds the guilt makes. Sanzo must have had to search me out again. I’d intended to not cause any more trouble for him, and already I’ve failed.

               “Why did you stay out all night?”

               Sanzo’s tightly-controlled voice slices into me; he’s not going to let this go. Why I was out all night...I wrap my arms around myself as a shudder runs through my body. I can’t tell him that.

               “I needed some fresh air.” It’s not entirely a lie. My voice is shaky; I focus on the idea of Right Speech and force it into a calmer tone. “I guess I was more exhausted than I thought.” I replace my eyepiece and notice for the first time where I am. “You...brought me to your room?” I glance at Sanzo in surprise; he’s leaning against the door, arms crossed.

               “It was closer than yours.”

               I look away, the unworthiness gnawing at me. “You shouldn’t have bothered.” Calm, friendly tone, I remind myself. “I’m sure the other monks threw a fit,” I manage in a more detached tone. “I’m supposed to be paying you the proper respect for sparing my life, and I’m just being a bother to you.”

               “They’re not even a part of this. I’m responsible for what happens to you, and I’m not going to leave you in the cold like that.”

               Sanzo’s words are an undeniable statement of fact. The finality in his voice pull my gaze around to his, and his eyes seem to look straight into me, down to the unworthy sinner I am inside my skin. Why? Why does Sanzo care what happens to me? Why does my every action seem to cause him pain? I wrap my arms around myself again, trying to hide their trembling, and tear my gaze away from him.

               “I’m not worthy of your concern.” Did I just say that? Out loud? I clench my jaws together and squeeze my eyes shut to keep from saying anything else.

               “It’s my decision who I’m going to worry about.” There is a slight tremor in Sanzo’s voice; this is affecting him more deeply than he’s letting on.

               For the next few minutes there is silence; I am struggling to not let any of what I’m feeling show. I have got to be the most utterly worthless failure in the history of the world. I deserve to be eaten alive by a swarm of tiny somethings. I deserve to starve to death, slowly. I deserve to be locked in a lightless room, to be devoured by the demons in my heart for the rest of eternity. Why does Sanzo worry about me? What makes me worthy of his concern, of anyone’s concern? Why didn’t he just let me die? Why...? I take a deep breath. None of it matters right now; my responsibility is to devote myself to the Noble Eightfold Path and the difficulties it will bring to my undeserved life. Another deep breath. Right Action: to not cause harm to another, either through action or inaction. My actions, staying outside all night, have brought harm to Sanzo. That harm can not be undone. It is my responsibility to prevent myself from repeating my mistake.

               “I’m sorry,” I say softly. “I won’t stay out all night again.” A half-truth, but the best I can do right now.

               “You need to take care of yourself.” The aggressive neutrality is gone, replaced by a gently accusing tone that somehow is even worse.

               “Why?” I didn’t mean to say that, but it was very quiet. Perhaps Sanzo didn’t hear it...

               “I didn’t save you to watch you die.”

               An epiphany strikes me like a bolt of lightning, scattering the dark questions that circled in my head like a pack of scavengers. I nod once. It all makes sense now – all I have to do is perform my penance in private and make sure nothing I do is fatal. Right Action. I will not take my own life, either through action or inaction.

               “I understand.” My voice is calm and steady; it is as though the weight of a great decision has been lifted from me. By my savior’s words, I am to keep my suffering out of his sight and live so that I might suffer more.

               “When was the last time you ate something?”

               I blink at the sudden change of subject. “I ate dinner,” I answer, keeping it a statement and not a comment on who else may or may not have eaten.

               “...Last night?” Sanzo’s tone is prodding.

               “Yes.” I meet his eyes again, my own gaze steady and clear. “When was the last time _you_ ate?” I gently remind him that mine is not the only body that requires fuel.

               Sanzo flinches slightly at my question. “...Yesterday.”

_~If I have something to drink, I’ll eat.~_

               I take a deep breath, stand up slowly, and straighten my robe. “I’m sorry,” I say in as polite and friendly tone as I can manage. “I’m being lax in my duties.” I give a formal bow, and Sanzo steps to the side and unlocks the door. “I will return as soon as I can,” I tell him. “It may take me a while to find what you asked for.”

               “Thank you,” Sanzo mutters, not looking at me.

               I force myself to smile politely, bow once again, and leave the room.  
 

             *********************************************************  
  
               The monks hadn’t wanted to let me leave, but they didn’t want to interfere in Sanzo’s business, either. I told them that the Honored Genjo Sanzo had sent me to fetch him something from town, and after a moment’s hesitation, they stepped aside. One of the loudest protestors had muttered that I better not be bringing anything ‘forbidden’ into the temple; the same monk now eyes my burden with considerable suspicion. I keep my face and posture carefully bland and unthreatening, and walk up the stairs unchallenged. The loaf of dark brown bread seems to draw every eye – it’s easily two feet across and a foot high. My calm smile holds a hint of amusement as I make my way through the halls in search of my honored savior. When I find him, some monk with a nasal whine has trapped him in a corridor and, to judge from the look on Sanzo’s face, is quickly taking his life into his own hands with his complaints. I continue softly down the corridor; the monk’s back is to me, and I stop just behind and to the right of him.

               “I have returned with that bread you asked for, Honored One.” My voice is as polite and subservient as I can make it, but Sanzo doesn’t miss the amused quirk of my lips. He looks at me piercingly for an instant, then assumes a haughty, arrogant expression.

               “Bring it to my rooms,” he orders coldly, fixing the other monk with a look of disdain. “I will give your words the consideration they deserve,” he tosses over his shoulder to the other monk as he sweeps past, every inch the arrogant asshole the higher-ups consider him. His tone implies that the amount of consideration the other monk deserves is none at all, and that unfortunate flinches and sighs resignedly. “Follow,” Sanzo tosses at me in that same voice, not turning to look at all as he strides imperiously away, robes rustling slightly.

               I bow politely to the other monk, give him a sterile apology, and meekly hurry after Sanzo’s retreating figure. He sweeps grandly through the corridors to his room, looking neither right nor left and acknowledging no one. Several times, some hapless monk or group of monks has to scramble out of his way to avoid a collision. Sanzo pauses to unlock his door, then sweeps inside. I follow, and am not surprised when he closes and locks the door behind me. I carefully set my burden on the little table in the room, and turn to face Sanzo with a bland but pleased smile. He gives me a suspicious glare.

               “Why is there bread on my table?” He demands, his tone threatening immanent bodily harm if no acceptable answer is forthcoming.

               “Ah, this bread is highly recommended for its delectable insides.” I wink as I calmly evade the question.

               Despite himself, a wry smile twists his lips. “So that’s how you snuck it in.” Understanding and grudging admiration color the words.

               Smiling broadly, I reach over with both hands and pull the top half of the loaf upwards. The tavern keeper’s clever cuts release; the entire loaf comes apart in two clean halves to reveal three ceramic bottles of the strongest alcohol I could find, nestled snugly in the soft interior of the bread. I set the top half aside and pull out a chair for Sanzo; after a moment, he seats himself. He opens one of the bottles and sips at it, giving me a sharp look that seems to be half surprise and half admiration. Apparently, I made a good choice.

               “Try the bread,” I suggest gently.

               Sanzo nods and tears a chunk out of the interior, stares at it for a few seconds, then gives me a look that’s half accusation and half inquiry. I shake my head politely, and he frowns.

               “Don’t you need to eat, too?” The words are suspicious and threatening.

               I shake my head again while Right Speech and my innate worthlessness squabble with each other. Do not tell a falsehood...punishment is deserved for causing trouble for Sanzo...do not tell a falsehood...punishment is deserved...

               “I picked up something to eat while I was in town,” I say by way of explanation. It’s the truth, and it does not specifically imply that I ate. If Sanzo chooses to interpret it that way, it will be through his own choice.

               Apparently, he does interpret it that way, because he gives me an understanding nod and begins eating. I watch for a minute as he finishes the fist-sized chunk, sipping occasionally from the ceramic bottle.

               “There’s something I have to go do,” I say quietly.

               Sanzo nods briefly, and I let myself out.  
 

             *********************************************************  
  

               The flail of thorny vines is right where I left it. I look at it a moment, then put it back and visit the laundry. There are a few monks there, and one of them asks me sharply what I want. When I tell him I’m looking for a rag, he tosses me what looks like the remaining half of a sheet that had been eaten away by mold and hard usage. I thank him politely, bow, and return to my little garden. I slide my arms out of the sleeves of the robe, letting it fall around my waist, and tie the sheet over it in a thick bunch to protect the robe from being stained. Today, for my sins and mistakes, I am going to whip myself thoroughly, and not stop when my back starts to bleed. Flail in hand, I kneel before the Buddha statue and begin atoning for the pain I’d unthinkingly caused Sanzo.

               The rhythm of the lash-strokes and my deliberate awareness of the physical and emotional pain I’m causing myself bring me quickly to my meditative trance-state. With each sharp pain, I remind myself ruthlessly of the unforgivable sins I’ve committed. This pain is my punishment. With my own hands I ended lives that I had no right to end; with my own hands I now carry out the vengeance of my victims. The cold, calculating portion of my mind guides my hand so that no portion of my back is spared the touch of the vines. The stinging pain runs down my back in lines of minor agony, crisscrossing a thousand times. Those points of intersection begin to throb in time with my heartbeat, and I welcome the higher level of pain. This is my punishment for casually living my life at the school for two months while Kanan was tortured and raped. My back becomes a sea of boiling, throbbing agony; each thorn that now tears into my raw flesh burns, bringing yet a higher level of pain. This is my punishment for causing harm to Genjo Sanzo, who did nothing to deserve it.

               When each stroke of the flail only blends into the burning pain and does not raise the intensity, I stop and put the flail back in its hiding spot. Very carefully, I untie the sheet from around my waist and bind my still-bleeding back with it. Makeshift bandage in place, I tie my robe back over it and meditate further on my sins, the throbbing of my back a slow fire of atonement, eating away at my guilt, granting vengeance to one of the innocents I slaughtered. Letting one of the thousand youkai I killed find peace.

               The bell for dinner brings me out of my trance. My body reminds me painfully that food is an important part of continuing to live, and I promise it that as soon as I’ve seen to Sanzo’s needs, I’ll feed myself. Halfway to Sanzo’s room, an enthusiastic shout from behind me catches my attention.

               “Hey!...uh, YOU!” Goku doesn’t sound fazed by my lack of a name. He grins at me as he trots up, and we continue walking. “Hey, why were you sleeping outside? Sanzo got really pissed at you for that and made me carry you to his room. You sure don’t weigh much! Do you eat enough?” Goku doesn’t wait for an answer. “I bet Sanzo’s run out of cigarettes an' that’s why he’s so cranky. He doesn’t care when I sleep outside sometimes ‘cuz the monks here are so stuck up and I just want to get away from them for a while. Hey, d’you know if Sanzo ate anything for lunch? He didn’t come to breakfast...” His golden eyes are remarkably pleading as he looks up at me, waiting for an answer.

               I nod, brain trying to catch up with the stream of words, but my nod seems to be enough of an answer because he spends the rest of the walk to Sanzo’s room telling me about his favorite foods.

               “Oy, Sanzo!” Goku bangs on the monk’s closed door with one fist. Silence. “Sanzo?” He tries the door, but it’s locked. Goku presses one ear to the door and gives me a triumphant grin. “I can hear him,” he whispers loudly and winks at me before arranging his features into a calculated expression of pity-inspiring pleading. “Saaaaaaaannnnnnnzzzzzzzooooooooo!” He whines, “I’mmmmm huuuuuunnnnngrrrrrryyyyyy!”

               There is a somehow threatening silence, and then the door opens abruptly and Sanzo brings a thick roll of paper down on Goku’s head.

               “Shut up, you stupid monkey! Go eat if you’re so hungry – you know where the dining hall is!” Sanzo’s irritated growl doesn’t faze Goku at all.

               “But Sanzo!” Goku rubs his head absently. “Those stuffy monks look at me meaner than you do when you’re not there...” Those pleading, golden eyes beg Sanzo to give in.

               “Fine,” Sanzo snaps, glaring at the kid.

               He stolidly ignores Goku the whole way to the dining hall, which doesn’t dampen the boy’s enthusiasm any. Goku skips ahead a few feet, then turns and waits for Sanzo to catch up before skipping ahead again, keeping up a nonstop flow of one-sided conversation. Sanzo stalks along sullenly, arms crossed, glaring at anyone and everyone without saying a word. I follow silently behind Sanzo, taking in the nonchalant way Goku rambles on and Sanzo ignores him. When we get to the dining hall, the looks we get are resigned glares. Goku stays with us long enough to make sure Sanzo actually has food on his plate, then darts off to fill his own plate to heaping. I serve myself a moderate portion and look expectantly at Sanzo. He rakes the room with a generic glare, then hands me his plate with a snort and walks out.

 

             *********************************************************  
  

               Dinner is silent, but not uncomfortably so. Sanzo picks at his food until he looks up and sees me watching him expectantly, then sighs and grimaces at his dinner. He halfheartedly eats about a dozen bites, and I smile blandly at him before returning my attention to my own food. The next time I look up, he’s giving me a sour look, but his plate is also a bit emptier.

               Goku is waiting for me when I return the plates. At his question I point him towards where Sanzo was eating, and he dashes off. I make my way to the library, select a promising book and a secluded corner, and happily tune out the rest of the world while I indulge my love of books.

               One of the monks comes over to me a few hours later and tells me that he’s going to put out the lamps and go to bed, but that if I would like, I may take the book and a candle back to my cell. I nod and follow him to the store room, where he lights a taper from his lamp. I suddenly remember my earlier resolution to find out about Sanzo’s past. Well, this monk is fairly friendly to me. May as well ask.

               “Might I trouble you with a question?” I ask as I take the candle.

               “That depends on the question,” he answers carefully.

               I pause to choose my words. “I have noticed that the Honored Genjo Sanzo dislikes certain subjects,” I say carefully. “I was wondering if I might trouble you for a bit of information, so that I don’t accidentally offend him...?”

               The librarian-monk gives me a conspiratorial wink. “Come to the library after the breakfast bell. I’ve lived in this temple for close to forty years; I can tell you all about our honored prodigy.” There is amusement in his voice, and a hint of malice.

               Well, no better way to learn what pain hides in Sanzo’s past than to hear it from someone who would enjoy telling it. I thank the librarian profusely and make my solitary way back to my cell. For the next few hours, I read in silence. The flickering light from the candle keeps the darkness at bay, and the book occupies my thoughts. When the candle starts guttering, however, I can see shadowy movement in the corners of my cell, and I know that if I stay here, I will not be able to sleep at all. The horrors of my subconscious mind will tear at me until I flee mindlessly like I did last night.

               Well, part of the night has already passed; if I go outside, I will have kept my word to Sanzo that I won’t spend all night out there. Averting my eyes from the lurking hallucinations, I use a corner of my sheet to keep my place in the book and calmly leave the room, closing the door behind me. The vine-choked garden is cool but not uncomfortably so; I eye the eastern wall and position myself so that the first light to enter the garden will wake me.  
 

             *********************************************************  
  

               The cold wakes me just before dawn. I drift down to the baths and wash, scrubbing the bloody sheet and wringing it out as much as I can before re-tying it. Clean and dressed, strengthened by the knowledge that the sun is rising, I venture back to my cell and retrieve the book I was reading. There is a wooden bench fairly close to Sanzo’s room in a garden that gets the morning sun; I read there in peace until the breakfast bell rings, then tuck the book into a fold of my robe and go knock on Sanzo’s door. There is no answer, and the door is locked. I press my right ear against it and listen, but either Goku has better hearing than I do, or Sanzo’s not in.

               He’s not at breakfast, so after greeting Goku I take a plate of food and try Sanzo’s room again.

               “Who is it?” The question is less of a request for a name and more a demand that the one knocking simply go away.

               Not having a name, I pause for a second. “Sanzo? I’ve brought you some breakfast…” I wince slightly; that came out more uncertain than I wanted it to.

               There is a shuffling sound, and then the door opens and a surly, disheveled Sanzo opens the door. He blinks at me, then mutters something that sounds like ‘serves me right for asking’, and takes the proffered plate to his small table.

               “You eat yet?” He growls, eyeing me with a combination of crankiness and angry concern. When I shake my head no, he gruffly tells me to go eat, and with a bow I close the door.

               The library, not the dining hall, is where I go next. The librarian is waiting, and he waves me into a small study where he has a simple assortment of breakfast foods waiting. I nibble at some bread while he gives me a somewhat uncomplimentary account of Sanzo’s past. When he’s done, I thank him and return to my little alcove to think about what I’ve learned. There are a few disturbing parallels between my past and Sanzo’s: both orphans, both raised surrounded by religions we couldn’t put any faith into. ‘Disrespectful towards the teachings of Buddha and those who follow in the Buddha’s footsteps’ is how the librarian had put it, but despite the rank he inherited it is obvious that Sanzo was not meant to be a Buddhist. Knowing about Sanzo’s predecessor and the circumstances of his death, I think I understand why Sanzo took such an interest in my fate, and why my self-torment seems to cause him so much pain. If I ever met a man whose situation was similar to mine, I think I would try my hardest to help him, to give him something to live for. Most likely, I would measure my own worth by his life, and view his success or failure to survive as reflecting directly back on me. I hold no hope for myself, but if I were able to help someone else, someone with a future, that might bring some measure of validation to my sham of a life. I would not be a complete failure; my pain would have not been for nothing. The worn stone Buddha smiles beatifically at me as I regard it thoughtfully.

_~I didn’t save you to watch you die.~_

               I must survive. Well, aside from the directives given to me by Sanzo, I have no responsibilities. He, on the other hand, is bound to the responsibilities of his rank. Therefore, my responsibility is to bring no more pain into Sanzo’s life and to make sure that I do not cause him any more trouble. To do this, I must maintain at least the appearance of embracing life. To be honest with myself, maintaining a façade may be the best I can do on that front. Any greater effort would undoubtedly be sabotaged by my inherent worthlessness. I don’t deserve this second chance Sanzo has given me; I have no reasons to try to live except for penance, both to the ones I’ve killed, and the ones I’ve failed. Well, I already have the tools I need in order to perfect my façade...I just need to devote myself more towards following the Noble Eightfold Path and the hardships and restrictions it imposes.


	5. Shattered Silence

               The next few days follow the same general routine. I spend the first part of the night reading by candle light, then when the candle burns low I go to my vine-choked garden to sleep until dawn. I bathe and dress in clean robes, then meet Sanzo and sometimes Goku for breakfast. I usually find a quiet corner somewhere to meditate or read in until lunch. Sometimes I have to go in search of Sanzo, and sometimes he has to search me out. After lunch he wanders off to a secluded spot somewhere; I tidy his room a bit, then find a secluded spot of my own. Occasionally one of us will bump into the other if we both chose the same little corner. One of us finds the other for dinner, which is usually taken to Sanzo’s room so that he can sip at his little cache of alcohol while eating. True to his word, he does eat more when he drinks. After dinner I go to the library and read until I’m sure that Sanzo has gone to bed, then under cover of darkness return to my little garden and whip myself in penance for my sins. The jarring pain that streaks down my back when I move during the day keeps me grounded and focused, reminding me of my failure and strengthening my resolve to maintain Right Speech and Right Action. When the whip fails to invoke a more intense pain, I select a small candle from the store room and keep to the letter of my word and read in my cell so that I won’t be spending the entire night outside. When the candle gutters and the specters of my past come out to try to break me, I return to my little garden and the cycle begins again. I don’t eat a whole lot at meals, and neither does Sanzo, but I eat enough to keep myself going and make sure that he does the same.

               The half a sheet I’ve been using to bandage my back is becoming more unsanitary every day; the mild soap used for bathing isn’t strong enough to clean it thoroughly, but getting my hands on anything stronger would surely arouse suspicions. There’s no place where I could simply get rid of it without it being found, and I am afraid of it being traced back to me. For this reason I have not tried to replace it with a cleaner cloth. Between the regular lashings I give myself and the state of the cloth I use to cover my back, I suspect the tiny cuts are becoming infected. Unhealthy-looking fluid residues stain the cloth when I take it off to wash it in the mornings, and the throbbing, burning ache on my back never fully subsides. The cold air and cold water feel good on the abused skin in the mornings. The rest of the day, the constant reminder of my penance gives me a sense of productivity. It is good that I’m in some measure of constant misery. My life _should_ be misery. Each day that passes with this stinging reminder makes me feel that a tiny bit more of my sin has been atoned for, that perhaps one more youkai soul can rest in peace knowing that its murderer is in constant pain for his crimes.

               My goal of creating a mask, of pretending to live, is also progressing nicely. I am able to keep a friendly, bland smile on my face and in my voice at all times, and even the monks who previously looked at me with disdain now look at me with only minor annoyance. I am unfailingly polite and respectful, with a smile modeled after the Buddha’s and a tone that is mildly friendly, and most of the time the monks simply don’t notice me. Those that do are usually ones that have some task they want me to perform – usually something involving Sanzo. Running messages, fetching him something, performing some trivial matter related to him...I don’t mind. If it keeps them from bothering him, I’d gladly perform any task. My only worry is that Sanzo will see through my charade; he has seen entirely too much, and he knows more of what is in my heart than I wanted him to. On top of that, two days ago when I brought him breakfast, he looked at me with a glare so intense and piercing that I feared he suspected something. He didn’t say anything about it, and I put it out of my mind, but yesterday morning he did the same thing. Again he said nothing and again I put it out of my mind. Today, however, has been especially nerve-wracking for me. He keeps looking at me with that intent, piercing stare, and watching me thoughtfully when he thinks I’m not looking.

               “Hey.” His voice is cold and angry, but I understand now that his voice doesn’t always reflect his true mood.

               I pause at the door to his room, empty lunch dishes in one hand and the other outstretched to open the door. “Yes?” I ask mildly.

               “You go to the library and read after dinner, don’t you?” The accusing tone makes it a statement of fact; I nod in agreement. “Why don’t you just bring your book back here before dinner and take your time?” His glare turns into a sour smile. “You need to relax more.”

               “I will,” I say, allowing a bit of honest friendliness to show in my smile.

               My trip back to the kitchen is actually cheerful. So that’s what those looks had been about! I’d been scurrying off after meals, not wanting to disturb Sanzo by sticking around, but I guess my presence doesn’t disturb him. I take my current book to a sunny bench and read outside after lunch, careful to not get so caught up in it that I completely tune out the dinner bell, as I tend to do when reading. When the bell tolls, I carefully mark my page with a bit of ribbon and go cheerfully to Sanzo’s room. I knock, but there is no answer. Goku must have gotten here first and dragged Sanzo off. The door is unlocked, so I slip inside and set my book on the table.

               The door slams shut behind me and I hear the lock turn.

               I turn, startled, and Sanzo is standing in the corner behind the door. He’s glaring at me with the same cold anger as when he’d had me sentenced to life.

               “Sanzo?” My smile and tone are slipping. Something is very wrong here.

               “Show me your back.” Sanzo’s tone is grimly flat.

               “Ah...I can see you’re not feeling well. I’ll just let you be, this evening.” I move unthreateningly towards the door, but Sanzo moves to block my path. My pulse quickens and I try to focus and keep my breathing calm.

               “Show me your back.” It’s as though my words didn’t even register.

               “San—” the sound of his gun cocking and the sight of its distinctive barrel pointed at me stop me cold, and I can feel panic starting to claw its way through my mind.

               “Show me your back.” That dreadful gaze bores into me, demanding compliance. “You’re not getting out of this.” The tone is absolute, allowing no argument.

               I cannot withstand the simultaneous demands of Sanzo’s cold eyes and the panic that threatens my sanity. I turn my back to Sanzo, but the weight of his gaze does not lessen. My hands move to undo the ties of my robe, and the realization of what I am about to do hits me. I fumble with the ties of the stained sheet under my robe, and manage to get it to fall so that when I slip my arms out of the robe’s sleeves and let the robe fall, the cloth underneath won’t show. I am trembling uncontrollably; it takes what seems like forever before the top half of my robe falls open and the cool air in the room hits the hot pain on my back. Idly, the calculating corner of my mind observes that the guilt and worthlessness that I now feel seem to be keeping the blind panic at bay, and my eyes are mercifully dry.

               “Why are you doing this?” Sanzo’s voice is demanding, but not angry.

               I have to take several deep, shuddering breaths before I am able to scrape together enough control to speak clearly. “Because...I deserve it.” Another breath. “I’m atoning for my sins.” Raw pain creeps into my voice from between the cracks in m control. If I could have evaded the question, I would have, but Sanzo has left me no escape, and Right Speech demands I tell him the truth.

               “You’re already atoning...you don’t need to do this.” The words are somehow empty. There is no anger in his voice, but no other emotion is there to take its place. It sounds as if the words are being somehow pulled out of Sanzo against his will.

               “Yes, I do,” I counter, the certainty of my worthlessness the only thing keeping my tone steady. How am I atoning, except through the misery I inflict upon myself? “I deserve to suffer.” I don’t deserve to live, except to be in agony. My arms wrap around my body as if trying to control its trembling.

               “Not like this...this isn’t necessary.”

               The empty helplessness of Sanzo’s tone breaks something inside me. “Then what is?” Frustration and anguish fill my voice, and I discover that I’ve dropped to my knees, back protesting at being bent as I hunch over, arms still crossing over the angry red scar on my abdomen. “Tell me what I should do, if you have all the answers!” My life...my life has no purpose but to suffer for my sins and to obey the commands of Genjo Sanzo, for without his intervention I would be with Kanan...My masks are breaking; I concentrate on the air going in and out of my lungs, and focus my attention on listening for Sanzo’s voice. The voice that will dictate what I dedicate my undeserved life to. There is a long pause, then –

               “At least try to live.” The words are quiet, filled with pleading and...sadness?

               My earlier thoughts about what I would do if I met a man in my situation shriek triumphantly at me from the safety of memory. I mock myself with the knowledge that I was right; Sanzo wants me to life. The brief moment of hysteria passes, and the realization that I am going to fail Sanzo rips me apart. The only thing he is asking of me, and I can’t do it.

               “Why?” My eyes are clenched shut, and the despair born from being a failure makes my voice raw; I struggle to not break down in front of Sanzo. “What reason do I have to live, what did you save me for?”

               “I didn’t...couldn’t leave you like that...”  Sanzo’s muttered words are barely audible. “I made a promise...not to walk away...”

               The quiet words barely brush against my awareness; I can barely hear over my own harsh breathing, and before I can scrape the shards of my self-control back together enough to think about what he said, the sound of someone knocking on the door shatters my concentration. I can hear Sanzo unlock the door, and in a moment of startling rationality, I remember that my back is still exposed. I fumble for the sleeves, then pull the top portion of the robe over my shoulders like a cloak just as Sanzo opens the door. Again I try to focus and regain some level of composure. Behind me, Sanzo is quietly ordering someone to do something.

               “But-” Whoever it is, they are very reluctant.

               “DO IT!” The gun cocks again. There is a frightened sound, and the door closes. A chair scrapes and squeaks. Something rustles.

               The mostly-silent room provides no distraction, and I am able to calm my breathing. Resolutely, I empty my mind of all thoughts and emotions and focus on nothing at all. I am vaguely aware of movement and sound behind me as I kneel on the floor, eyes closed. The edges of my robe brush against my sides with each breath.

               Cold air hits my back, shocking me out of the semi-trance I’d achieved. A snort behind me, hot air on the raw skin; it jolts my brain into remembering where I am, and why, with all the abruptness of a bandage being ripped off a bleeding wound. I lurch forward in unthinking panic, but an iron hand on my right shoulder holds me back.

               “Don’t move,” Sanzo growls in my ear, irritation and anger once again filling his voice.

               I freeze, panic and guilt chasing each other through my mind. There is wet coldness on my back, spreading in short, gentle strokes. It takes away the burning ache, robbing me of the pain that is my validation, leaving me increasingly numb and empty. Sanzo’s short, angry breaths puff against my neck as he spreads the salve over my abused back with his left hand, the right hand still clamped onto my shoulder. The conflicting sensations of hot and cold only intensify the feelings of guilt and worthlessness that are steadily eroding what little coherence I managed to regain. The spreading numbness takes away the one bit of meaning my life had – punishing myself was the only thing I was managing to do without messing up, and now that is being denied me. Sanso’s breathing is a constant reminder that my failure and unworthiness are exposed before him, and the guilt of knowing that once again I have failed him tears into me gleefully.

               “Why are you doing this?” I bite my lip; without the pain in my back to anchor my thoughts in, my composure is slipping away.

               “I didn’t save your life only to have you end it.” There is only the barest hint of anger in Sanzo’s tone; his words are as determined and unshakable as the hand that holds me in place.

               “But...” I protest weakly, blinking away tears and hoping more won’t follow them, “...they’re not life-threatening...” The rest of what I had been about to say is erased by the sudden pain of Sanzo’s fingers digging into my right shoulder as his grip tightens angrily.

               “Never. Do anything like this. Ever again.” The words are harsh, not quite a growl, but equal measures of anger and concern vie for intensity.

               “Why-” My voice catches, and I clamp my jaws together, hands and eyes clenched shut, telling myself that the tears in my eyes are from the iron grip Sanzo has on my shoulder.

               That cool numbness now covers my entire back. The gentle fingers that were spreading salve over my raw flesh now withdraw, along with the hand that was clamped tightly onto my shoulder. There is a rustle as Sanzo stands up, and a muted thump as he places the jar or pot of salve on the table. More footsteps and rustling; he must be in front of me now, but my eyes are still closed as I struggle to focus on the new pain in my shoulder and regain some measure of control. A soft breath and softer finger brush against the shoulder Sanzo had gripped. My eyes open in surprise, and to my astonishment, Sanzo is kneeling in front of me, one finger gently tracing the bruises forming where his fingers were. Misery and regret are visible on his face. Regret? I open my mouth to say something, but he looks at me with an expression that states clearly that he feels that he has failed me, and a look of abject apology in his eyes.

               “I’m sorry,” he mutters as he turns away, looking very disgusted with himself.

               The idea of Sanzo being concerned for me, I could handle. The abject apology...the idea that Sanzo would worry about failing me...I’m worthless! Nothing! An abomination, a murderer! Why would he be concerned about me? Why...? The fragile hold on my composure shatters, and I hide my face in my hands as I try to stifle the sobs that I don’t have the strength to choke back.

               “Why...why do you care so much...if I live or die?” I can barely get he words out; I make no attempt to control my voice, and it sounds bewildered and helpless to my ears.

               There is a strangled silence, broken only by my pathetic attempt to not weep.

               “...I can’t...” Sanzo’s voice is a harsh whisper, as though he is also struggling to not break down. “...won’t lose anyone else...” If he were not so close, I would not be able to hear him at all. “...not anymore.”

               The librarian’s account of Sanzo’s mentor comes back to me. _“He was an annoying little brat, only speaking civilly to Master Sanzo.”_ Kanan’s death almost killed me, is still almost killing me. How much harder would this be on me if Kanan had been at the orphanage, if she had been in my life from the beginning? My life, by itself, is now a worthless thing with no inherent value. But –

_~If I ever met a man in my situation...~_

               “You...need me to live...” I keep my face covered; the words forced out between choked-back sobs.

               “If you die now...” Sanzo’s voice is still a strangled whisper. “Then I will have failed at everything important I have tried to accomplish in my life.”

               But...I’m not important...

               The apathy I’d felt when I first came to the temple resurfaces, bringing an island of stillness to my mind. Hopelessness wells up in my heart, and my hands drop to my knees in defeat. Even if I had the energy to open my eyes, I wouldn’t be able to face Sanzo.

               “My entire life has been a failure, I whisper dully. “If you save a failure, is it still a success?”

               Sanzo utters a sound of self-mocking determination. "I've already gone this far...made myself responsible for what happens to you."  

               Guilt stabs me sharply, following on the heels of the realization that if I die, Sanzo will take it as personally as if he had killed me himself.

               “The theory is that by giving you a new name, you are being given the chance to be something else.” The words are carefully neutral.

               Sudden despair burns through the apathy, and I can feel hot tears running down my face. There is a sharp, illogical longing for the time when those tears would have burned in my right eye. “No matter what I do or what name I bear,” I whisper brokenly, “the weight of my failure and my sins will never leave me.”

               Sanzo inhales sharply, and then there is a long silence. “Even so, you still have a chance. Please don’t throw it away...” His tone is pleading, as if he is trying to convince me...or himself.

               The calculating part of my mind that is rational at all times seizes on that thought. “What about you?” My voice is cold and hard, and if it didn’t bring memories of blood-splattered stone with it, I wouldn’t recognize it as mine. I don’t remember opening my eyes, but Sanzo is kneeling on the floor in front of me, looking at me in shock. “Sanzo...” I mutter, appalled at myself, and look away in shame.

               “As long as I’m still alive, you have to live, too.” The words sound as though they’re being ground out of Sanzo against his will.

               The crushing knowledge that I will most likely fail at this, too, drives all rational thought from my mind, and I close my eyes again in defeat. Live. That’s all he’s asking me for. It comes so easily to everyone else in the world, why is it so hard for me? I am crying again; tears of helpless despair running down my face and dripping into my upturned hands.

               “Promise me.” The quiet, pleading tone reminds me of the abject apology I’d seen in Sanzo’s eyes.

               _~I’ve already gone this far...made myself responsible for what happens to you.~_

               “I promise.”

               There is a long silence, and my words echo inside my head. I’ve promised. As long as Sanzo is alive, I have to keep myself alive. That is the only directive Sanzo has given me. No, that’s not entirely true.

_~Never. Do anything like this. Ever again.~_

               So. I am to live, and to do so in such a way that I don’t cause harm to myself. Is that limited to physical harm, or is my mental health included in that? A complex internal dispute rages for a while, and finally I decide to just admit defeat and default to whatever would not cause harm or trouble for Sanzo.

               There is a sharp knocking on the door, startling me into opening my eyes. Sanzo is looking at me; our eyes lock and we are frozen like that for a long minute while the knocking continues. The look of apology is still there, and I find that there is nothing I can say in the face of such a miserable expression.

               “Sanzo? Sanzo! Sanzo, you missed dinner...are you okay? Sanzo...” Goku’s voice goes from irritated to concerned, then fades away.

               Sanzo and I remain locked in our kneeling positions for a minute longer, then he sighs and looks away. Without his apologetic eyes driving all thoughts from my head, I discover that I am calm and sure of what I should do – for the moment, at least.

               “I should go get you something to eat,” I say quietly as I stand up.

               Sanzo stands up as well. “Don’t worry about it,” he says tiredly. “I should probably go myself.”

               “But it’s my fault-” Sanzo’s hand on my left shoulder stops me mid-sentence.

               “Don’t worry about me,” he says in a soft, commanding tone.

               I watch in silence as he moves slowly to the door, unlocking it and letting it drift not-quite-closed behind him. His footsteps are slow and unsteady as he moves down the hall, shuffling and echoing. I listen to those footsteps until even the echoes can no longer be heard.

_~Don’t worry about me.~_

               “How can I not?”  
  
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                There is too much in my head; I need to think, and I don’t wish to run into Sanzo. Absently, I close his door behind me and head back to my cell. Night has already fallen, and with Sanzo’s concern freshly-branded in my mind, spending the night in my little garden is not an option. As I select a tall candle from the store room, I realize that my book lies forgotten on Sanzo’s table. Well, I’m not going back for it, not tonight. The candle I’ve selected should last me most of the night, I just need to find someplace to light it. Mindlessly, I wander the corridors in search of a lit candle or lamp. I find myself before the doors of the Grand Hall, but can’t bring myself to enter. In one of the more frequently-traveled halls, a dying lamp provides me enough flame to light my candle and I carefully make my way back to my cell. Once there, I carefully undo the top part of my robe and remove the stained bit of sheet. That goes into the corner furthest away from me; I’ll figure out what to do with it later. I remove my eyepiece and clean it gently with a corner of my robe, then set it on my little table. With the salve on my back, lying down is out of the question, and so is sleep. I set the candle on the floor in front of me and seat myself in the lotus position. There is so much in my mind right now that I need to work out that I don’t think I’d be able to sleep, anyway.

               For once, the hallucinations leave me alone. The candle’s flame becomes the center of my universe, and soon my thoughts are focused inwards with such single-mindedness that the flame barely registers on my awareness.

               I need to live, and I need to not harm myself. What do I need in order to live? What do I need, to not harm myself?

_~As long as I’m still alive, you have to live, too.~_

               Sanzo. In order for me to live, Sanzo must be alive. In order for me to not harm myself, I must atone in some other way. Following the Noble Eightfold Path will only take me so far; I can use it to prevent myself from committing future sins, but it will not provide me with a way to atone for the ones I have already committed. I turn the problem over in my mind for some time. To atone for my past sins without harming myself, I must perform actions that are equal and opposite from the actions I am atoning for. What, exactly, are my sins? What are the actions that I should be reversing as penance?

               Kanan was abducted, raped, and tortured for two months while I was away. What was the action that allowed that to happen? My fault there lies with not realizing that something was wrong, and allowing harm to come to someone who was more important to me than my own life. The reversal is easy enough to figure out; to be attentive to the possibility of any problem and prevent harm from coming to anyone whose life is more important to me than my own. How am I going to determine if someone’s life is more important to me than my own? The candle flickers with my breath, making the shadows in the corners of the room jump. My hallucinations. The nightmarish visions of the youkai I’d killed are just memories replayed so strongly that they overpower what is around me. The hallucinations, on the other hand, are all of Kanan – and not mere memories. It is as if Kanan’s corpse had been raised and sent to torment me, as real as what I know to be my surroundings. I will use the hallucinations to judge how important someone is; I may be able to lie to myself, but they are true visions into the dark corners of my heart. In the event that a dead face that is not Kanan’s ever stares back at me from the silent darkness, I will dedicate my worthless life to keeping that person from harm and being attentive to any indication that anything is wrong.

               My awareness is suddenly on my surroundings, and it takes me a moment to realize that my candle has burned down to a puddle of wax and gone out. I wait, still seated, for the hallucinations, but the room is still. Maybe, just maybe, I’ve taken enough of a step towards my penance that my mind is at peace and I will be spared the nightly torments of Kanan’s dead accusations. Well, regardless, I have to do something about the filthy cloth I’d been using to cover my back. I stand slowly, stretching my stiff legs, and grope my way to the corner I’d dropped the cloth in. I kneel and reach for it in the darkness, and my hand encounters Kanan’s dead body. A bitter smile twists my lips; good to know that Kanan is still so important to me. My other hand gropes slowly for my eyepiece, and I slip it on. At the same time, I carefully close my hand around the cloth covering the hallucinatory corpse and stand up. When I fumble my door open, it is only the stained sheet that I am holding.

               My feet trace the familiar path to my vine-choked garden in the darkness; I’ve walked it so often in the dark that I don’t need light to find my way. The cold air hits me hard, and I reluctantly pull the top half of my robe back on. When I reach the garden, I stop. What am I doing here? I can’t sleep outside tonight with my back the way it is, and I have to do something with the half a sheet in my hand. The stone Buddha smiles benignly at me. I kneel before the Buddha for a moment, then reverently tip the statue on its side. The soil is cold and hard, but I wrap the sheet around my hands and manage to scrape out a shallow hole. I unwrap the sheet from around my hands and wad it into the hole, cover it with the dirt I’d displaced, and then spend the next hour trying to pack it down enough that the Buddha will sit upright on the spot again. The first grey light of dawn lightens the eastern sky when I finally stand up, and I automatically make my way to the bathing room and begin washing mechanically with the cold, unheated water. When the first drops hit my back, however, the cold bites into me instead of feeling good on my infected cuts. Remembering the salve Sanzo had carefully spread over my back and not wanting to have to repeat the experience, I avoid washing my back and carefully finish bathing.

               There is still a bit of time before the breakfast bell, so I arm myself with cleaning supplies and return to my cell to give it a thorough cleaning. There’s not much to clean; I’m rarely here for any amount of time. What little there is to be cleaned is, and with a vengeance. The bell is tolling by the time I’ve replaced the cleaning supplies, so I reluctantly return to Sanzo’s door. There is no answer to my knock, and Sanzo is not in the dining hall. The monks haven’t seen him, either. I get a tray and covering cloth from the one in charge of the kitchen, select a moderate assortment of breakfast foods I’ve seen Sanzo eat, and return to Sanzo’s room. The door is locked and he’s still not answering my knock. I don’t particularly want to face him, and he must feel the same way since my knocking has woken him up in the past. Quietly, I set the tray down beside the door and slip away.

               In the clear morning light, the vine-choked garden suddenly seems to be a representation of my own mind. The new growth is being strangled by what has already died, yet lingers. Focusing on the resemblance, I begin clearing the dead vines carefully and mindfully. I am aware of every sight, scent, sound, and sensation both internal and external. The rustling of the leaves and the sound of my own breathing mingles with the remembered screams of youkai and my harsh panting. The dead vines curl around the new ones as though trying to protect them from my hand, the scents of sap and blood overlap. My transgression was putting my own petty feelings and desires first, and causing harm to others by acting on them. I carefully free a delicate young vine from the grasp of several dead ones, taking care to watch the roots as I pull up the dead vines and add them to the growing pile by the Buddha. How can I reverse my actions and atone for the sin of murder? I find myself staring at my hands as though expecting them to be covered in blood, but they are covered instead with dirt, scratches, and the occasional streak of sap. Putting my own feelings and desires first was my sin. To reverse that, I must put the feelings and desires of others above my own. I begin unwinding another dead vine carefully, ignoring the stinging in my hands where the tiny thorns bite into my skin. How far should I go? Is there a point at which I should assert my feelings or desires? The conflicting concepts of selfish self-interest and penance through selflessness wrestle with each other as I mindfully untangle living vines from dead. The tolling of the lunch bell breaks me out of my internal argument, and without a second thought I turn to go to Sanzo’s room. No, I realize. My wants and needs will always be second place behind the wants and needs of others, and when in doubt, those of Genjo Sanzo will take precedence over anything else.

               The tray from breakfast is still outside Sanzo’s room; the food on it has not been touched. I eat a good portion of it on my way back to the kitchen, where I give my hands a quick wash and load the tray with lunch before returning to Sanzo’s room. There is still no answer to my knock, so again I leave the tray and go back to my mindful gardening. Barely one wall has been freed from the choking clutches of dead vines; it is soon finished, and I start on the back wall.

               The pile of dead vines in the center of the garden grows as the afternoon wears on. Each vine, to me, represents an action I took that resulted in harming another living being. Jealousy. Anger. Cruelty. The thrust of a knife where it would wound, but not kill quickly. As I untangle the dead vines, I identify the live ones with what I must do to atone for those sins. Be generous. Be selfless. Be kind. Do not kill, or if I must, kill quickly and cleanly. I do not pretend even to myself that I would not kill another, if that death would protect Sanzo. But I will never again cause a living thing to die a slow, agonizing death. The tiny bites of the thorns in my hands echo the guilt that gnaws at my heart; neither are the seas of agony I had inflicted on myself just the day before, but the stern harnessing of my thoughts and intentions feels every bit as productive as the burning pain had. The path is different, the channel into which my energy is being poured is not the same, but the result and the goal has not changed. I am actively atoning for the wrongs I have committed. I am purifying myself slowly.

               Progress is slow, both in structuring my mind and in separating the living vines from the dead. I am being excruciatingly careful with the vines, mindfully separating those with a chance to live from those that have already passed on, and the effort of such concentration and careful, controlled movements render me blind to the passage of time. When the bell for dinner rings, it comes as a complete surprise. I blink at the wall before me, realizing that I am now working on the third wall, and that my hands are filthy. The detour to the bathing room doesn’t take long, and with the dirt and dried blood washed off, my hands don’t look quite so scratched. All too soon, however, I am back before Sanzo’s door with my hand raised to knock. The covered tray is not outside the door; Sanzo must be awake. The anger and pain I saw in his eyes last night...I caused that pain, and I don’t know if I can ever find the action that will allow me to atone for that. My hand trembles slightly; I don’t want to knock. I don’t want Sanzo to look at me with apology in his eyes, I don’t think I could bear it. I have to knock. My hand connects weakly with the door, the resulting sound hesitant and uncertain. There is a pause, then the door opens and Sanzo is standing before me as disheveled as he looks every morning. The cold anger in his eyes is a sight I never thought I’d welcome. He glares at me for a long moment, then turns and retrieves something from the table behind him.

            “I’m out,” he snaps as he hands me a few coins. The tray is on the table, the food looks picked at, and the ceramic bottle next to it tells me what he’s run out of.

            I accept the money and bow; he glares at me in irritation I’m positive is feigned, then looks away in annoyance and shuts the door again. I can hear the lock turn. Somewhat relieved by this turn of events, I begin walking to the temple’s gate, using the trip to calm myself and focus on the task at hand. The monks who are stationed by the main gate are sure to be suspicious, and I don’t think the bread trick will work a second time. I’m still trying to figure out what to do when I reach the courtyard by the stairs, and a monk runs up to me. There is a cluster of monks behind him, all looking at something in the center and seeming unhappy about whatever it is.

            “Ah, thank you for coming!” The monk is looking at me in desperation and bowing subserviently to me. “Master Sanzo’s...ah...companion is...” he makes a tangled gesture that can be summed up as ‘get him out of here’. “Perhaps you could...?” He looks at me hopefully.

            “I’m afraid I don’t have any authority over Goku,” I say slowly, my astonishment falling under the steady blows of a forming idea. “I’m also just a companion of the honored Genjo Sanzo. He has asked me to fetch him something from town, however...” I pause, allowing my uncertainty to show on my face and in my voice. I’m not sure this will work, but I know that the monk is interpreting it as my being open to his urgings. “Perhaps...I could take him with me?” My voice is hesitant, as though asking the monk’s permission and looking for approval.

            It works; the monk turns to the cluster with an inflated air of authority. “You there!” The wall of beige robes parts at the pompous tone, and Goku blinks out at us.

            “Who, me?” He somehow manages to sound confused and annoyed at the same time.

            “This one-” the monk gestures imperiously towards me, “has been sent on an errand by Master Sanzo.” I do my best to look humble and obedient. “You will accompany him!”

            “I would be honored by your company.” Respectful tone and matching bow.

            “Um...okay...” Goku looks at me curiously, but says nothing else until we’re in the streets of Chang An. 

            “So, what was that really about?” Goku bounces happily beside me as we move out of sight of the temple. “Did Sanzo really send you out on an errand? Did he tell you to take me with you? He’s always leaving me here when he does stuff...” Goku lapses into silence. “Hey, what sort of errand is it, anyway?”

            After watching him babble at Sanzo a few times, I’m learning when Goku actually wants an answer and when he’s just voicing his thoughts. “He asked me to get him something to drink.” My words are carefully empty of any emotion but the warm friendliness Right Speech demands of me.

            “He gets really cranky when the monks don’t let him drink,” Goku nods in understanding. “Hey, how are you going to get it to him? They won’t let you just walk in with it.”

            “I hid it in a loaf of bread the first time, but I think they’ll suspect that if I try it again.”

            Goku’s face lights up. “Whoah! So that’s why Sanzo had that huge loaf of bread? Hey, maybe you should use a cake this time!” He looks at me hopefully, eyes flicking to the bakery we’re passing.

              A chuckle slips out of me. “I don’t think they’d believe that Sanzo sent me out for a cake,” I gently reject the idea, then realize that Goku is not next to me. A quick look around shows him some fifteen feet behind me, looking longingly at a cart of fresh fruit.  
  
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              The monks aren’t happy to see us return so soon, but they don’t say anything about it. They do, however, stop me and not-so-subtly pat me down to make sure I’m not bringing any “forbidden items” into the temple. The large, round loaf of brown bread attracts considerable suspicious attention, but it’s just bread and they reluctantly let us in. Goku throws an apple core down the steps and fishes another apple out of the bag he’s clutching to his chest. The monks flinch, but again say nothing, and we make it to Sanzo’s room with no further interruptions. The door opens at my knock, and Sanzo brusquely takes the bread from me. He pokes and pulls at it for several minutes, trying to find the clever cuts that will separate it and let him retrieve the alcohol inside. Goku wanders in and sits on the bed, still munching an apple, and I calmly close and lock the door.

              Sanzo’s almost reached the point of cursing at the loaf he’s manhandling. With an almost visible effort he puts the bread down and glares at me with the unique anger of one who’s just been made a fool of.

              “Where is it?” The low growl is a demand, not a question.

              With a carefully bland smile, I reach into the bag of apples and pull out the all-important ceramic bottles, setting them one by one on the table. Sanzo stares at them blankly for a few seconds, then makes a sound of disgust and glares at me balefully. Customary smile firmly in place, I give a quick bow and move towards the door.

              “Hey.”

              The harsh word makes me pause; it’s not entirely angry, there are hints of apology in it. I turn to face Sanzo, afraid of what I might see in his eyes. There is only irritation there, however, as he hands me the book I’d left there the night before. Gratitude infuses my smile for a moment, and I quietly let myself out. I return the book to my cell before going back to my garden; the librarian would be horrified to have it exposed to such a quantity of dirt and leaves.

              The half-cleared third wall is waiting patiently for me when I return to my quiet little garden, but the light fades before I am able to do much more than free a few more suffocating vines. Well, I’m sure I’ll have time for it tomorrow. The baths aren’t entirely empty; the few monks there look up as I enter but return to their bathing without a word. Moving mindfully so that my self-consciousness doesn’t show, I select a wooden-walled cubby that will hide me from their eyes and carefully begin washing the grime of my exertions from my body. As a compromise between cleanliness and consideration for the state of my back, I gently squeeze clean water from a sponge so that it rinses away dried sweat and dust without dislodging any of the delicate scabs that cover it.

              Again, I select a tall candle from the store room and light it from a lamp in the hallway. My mind feels as tired from the day’s efforts as my body is, so by candle light I indulge myself and read until Kanan’s specter can be seen through the flickering shadows of the guttering candle. She’s sitting on my cot, dead body propped up against the wall, bleeding from wounds in her throat and abdomen. Hallucinatory blood pools beneath her left hand, and the gore-streaked knife winks accusingly at me from where it lies across her lap.

              “Please don’t get up,” I say quietly in a moment of whimsy. “I’ll just let myself out. You’re more than welcome to the bed.” I bow to the dead image, a self-mocking smile replacing the mild one I usually wear, and close the door softly behind me as I make my way to the garden.

              It is still too dark to work on the vines, and dawn is some ways away. My back still isn’t healed enough for sleep, so I kneel before the little stone Buddha and meditate until the bell for breakfast startles me out of my trance. My stomach complains at me; I only ate one meal yesterday, and that one wasn’t very big. Sanzo’s needs come before my own, however, and I calmly ignore my hunger as I make my way to his room. I knock, but there is no answer. Knock again.

              “Just bring it here.” The cold edge of the words is clearly audible even through the door.

              “As you wish,” I tell the door mildly, and go to the dining hall.

              Not wanting to make two trips, I wrap some bread and cheese in a linen napkin and tuck it into my robes before preparing Sanzo’s breakfast on a tray and returning to his room. There is a muffled order to “Just leave it there” when I knock politely; I obey and leave the tray sitting just outside the door. My own breakfast is eaten in the company of the worn stone Buddha in my little garden, and then I once again throw myself into the separation of dead from living, worthy from unworthy, wrong from right. The third wall is cleared and half of the fourth is free of dead vines by the time the noon bell rings. The constant, deliberate exercise of body and mind is wearing at me slightly, slowing me down. I don’t mind, though. It just means I’m paying more attention to what I’m doing, engraving my decisions more deeply onto my heart.

              A quick trip to wash my hands thoroughly, then peek down the hall to Sanzo’s door. The tray is empty and waiting by the door. As silently as possible, I slip down the hall to retrieve it, then glide away again. More easily-transportable food for me, wrapped in the linen napkin and tucked away. Lunch for Sanzo on the tray. Back to the hall outside Sanzo’s room, where I hesitate. I have to knock, but I don’t want to. Sanzo is awake, he will surely want company. It seems like all the things that have knocked me off-balance or shattered my perceptions since arriving here have come out of his mouth. The confrontation of two nights ago...I am still struggling to recover from that, and I think if I see that regret in his eyes again, it will break me past any hope of rebuilding.

            Several minutes pass as I stand silently before the door, hand raised but frozen inches away from the wooden surface. I have to knock and deliver Sanzo’s lunch, his wants and needs come before mine. I don’t want to face Sanzo again, don’t want him to invite me into his presence. He relaxes around me, slightly, placing the burden of his trust on these unworthy shoulders. And I betrayed that trust...Guilt drives my knuckles against Sanzo’s door. I betrayed his trust, my petty desires are forfeit. If Sanzo wishes me to keep him company, then I will do that. There is a shuffling sound from inside the room; the door opens and Sanzo takes the tray from me with a sullen, angry glare. The door closes, the lock turns. I sigh in relief and return to my little garden.

            It takes me until the dinner bell to get the last half a wall cleared; my state of mindfulness has turned into a half-trance and the vines seem to take on an unreal quality. They almost appear to be the manifestations of the concepts I am struggling with inside my mind. When the bell rings it is as though the ripples of sound make the whole world shimmer, and then I am standing in the corner by where I first started clearing, the last dead vine forgotten and dangling from one hand. Shaking my head slightly to clear the last remnants of my trance, I toss the vine onto the now-significant pile and go wash my hands.

            The tray is not outside Sanzo’s door, and there is no reply to my knock. I make my way to the dining hall, but the sound of a familiar growling voice stops me just before I enter. Listening carefully, I can hear the interweaving of Sanzo’s growl and Goku’s blithe stream of chatter. My hand brushes against the lunch I’d forgotten to eat, slightly squished but still wrapped securely and tucked into my robes. Guiltily, I slip away and find a quiet corner by the outer wall and eat there. The air is getting cooler, the shadows longer. Night will fall soon, and I will have to find some way of occupying myself. An accidental brush against the wall sends a wave of raw agony through my back. If I try to sleep, the pain will wake me as soon as I shift positions. Sanzo doesn’t want me to hurt myself. Also, I need to do something with those dead vines. The two trains of thought collide and intermingle, and a possible solution sprouts and blossoms. Quickly, while the monks are still eating, I go down to the store room and poke around until I find an unused brazier and a small sack of charcoal.

            The brazier is meant to sit on a table; it stands a mere foot tall, and the gently curved bowl is only slightly bigger than my two cupped hands. While I’m there, I take a small candle and slip it into my robe. Almost running, I return to my little garden and tuck my provisions behind the stone Buddha, then take a more leisurely pace to my cell. Kanan’s hallucinatory corpse is nowhere to be seen, of course, but I reflexively check the sheets for bloodstains that aren’t there. I stay only long enough to grab the book I’ve been reading, and then hide in a quiet corner of the library until dark. When I am done reading the book, the librarian is close to blowing out the lamps. I return the book to its spot on the shelf and slip out, lighting the candle from a lamp in passing.

            Night has fallen completely by the time I return to my garden, and I fumble with the brazier in the dark for several minutes before getting it set up with half a handful of charcoal in the bottom. Lighting it with a candle is going to be tricky. After almost putting the candle out, I chide myself for not thinking. A small coil of dead vine around the pile of charcoal lights easily enough, and with the flames dancing before me I blow the candle out. No sense in letting it burn unnecessarily. While the burning coil ignites the charcoal, I coil a second vine, ignoring the pricking of the thorns on my abused fingers. The first coil burns to ash in a few minutes, but the charcoal has caught and I gently place the second coil on the smoldering pile. It, too, ignites and by its light I coil a third. _This vine represents harsh words,_ I tell myself as I coil it. _By burning this vine, I am making a vow to not speak harshly._ The second coil burns down, and I deftly place Harsh Words on the embers and watch in cold satisfaction as it burns.

              One by one the vines are coiled, named, and burned. One by one, I erase actions from the range of possibility. Determination flares in me with each coil that ignites, and another thought, deed, action, or intention is forever banned from me. In the silent night, the darkness of my soul is exposed to the ones I have wronged: the spirits of my victims, and Kanan. Her specter watches me from the dancing shadows, bearing wordless testimony to my unspoken vows and binding me to them unconditionally. I have no choice, now. If I break these oaths made to myself and to her spirit, I am failing her. I will not do that again. My hands coil vines almost without conscious thought, smoothly placing each one on the ashes of the one before. Kanan watches me from across the brazier, and the flames of my vows almost seem to be the veil that divides living from dead. Tears of blood mark her cheeks, as though she were more than mere hallucination. As though her spirit truly sits mere feet from me, as though she wishes to cross that veil of fire since I have been forbidden from crossing to her.

              The night is slowly devoured by the flames of my brazier; my heart is slowly devoured by the flames of my dedication. The ashes of both choke me, the smoke stings my eyes until I am weeping silently as my vows slice into my soul the way my knife sliced into youkai flesh. With each chunk of my bleeding psyche that is devoured by flames, hissing and spitting on the charcoal, Kanan wavers like a heat mirage and seems to retreat a little further from me. I am only able to see her as each blood-soaked coil ignites; she fades as the flames die down. The light of my self-mutilation reflects in her reproachful eyes. I do not wish to be the monster I have become. I do this so that I might be worthy of you again, Kanan. I will burn out the parts of me that are unworthy; I will mercilessly carve away everything I was and leave only the things you loved. I will be a hollow automaton for a thousand years if it means that you will not turn away from me when I finally return to your embrace.

              My hand gropes blindly for the next vine to coil and encounters only dead leaves. Alarm jolts my eyes away from the flames, away from Kanan. Panicking, I rake both hands through the grass where the vines had been piled, looking frantically for a vine to coil and burn, but there is none. I grab a double-handful of dead leaves and recklessly dump them on the embers in the brazier, but when the flames jump up, Kanan is gone. A wordless cry of protest and loss tears itself out of my throat and hurls itself after her, leaving the charred shell of a man to kneel by an ash-choked brazier and weep until the embers in both the brass bowl and his heart are cold and dead.

              The sun is burning into my eyes; the breakfast bell will surely ring soon. Mechanically, I scatter the ashes of my sins into the grass of my tiny garden and wipe the brazier clean. As I am returning the brazier and charcoal to the store room, the bell begins tolling. I should go to Sanzo’s room and bring him to breakfast, or at least bring breakfast to him. That’s what I should be doing, but my feet take me instead to the empty bathing room. One part of me reasons that I shouldn’t present myself to Sanzo as I am, streaked with dirt and ash. This logic is accepted by the rest of me, and the charred part that would have once been the selfish desire to sulk merely throbs with an echo of pain. I feel hollow; as I wash myself slowly and thoroughly, I am dully surprised that my body is whole. It should be missing huge chunks of flesh, to mirror the way my heart feels. My body is merely going through the motions without thought. Washing, drying, dressing...all are accomplished with cool detachment.

              Sanzo must be at breakfast by now, the logical part points out calmly. There would be no point in going to his room. My feet carry me back to my cell for lack of a better destination, and it seems only logical to seat myself in the lotus position and empty my mind in meditation. Empty mind...empty heart...Gonou is dead; my soul must be empty. And if my soul were to leave my body, that would be empty as well. I wonder briefly what name I will be given that fits this empty life. Void, perhaps. I will bear an empty name down a succession of empty days until my body crumbles into dust. My thoughts flare and die, and I become Nothing inside a prison of flesh, and then I am no longer aware of anything.


	6. Foundations and Afterimages

Awareness comes to me slowly. There was a sound...a sound that repeated. Cold hardness on one side of my body, pain behind me. Left. The coldness is on my left. I am lying on my left side. Pain. The raging pain behind me is my back. I shift slightly to try to ease my back, and points of agony lace through my left ear, causing the world to vanish in a haze of white-hot torture.  
  
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Cold hardness on my back, which throbs in grumbling protest. I am lying on my back. The ceiling is dark stone, with a faint rectangle of warm light on it. My left ear aches and feels cold; there are also points of cold on the bridge of my nose and next to my right eye. I digest this information for a long moment before the relevant memories surface and attach themselves to the physical sensations. My eyepiece. My inhibitors. With those two bits of thought, everything else comes rushing back, including the fact that it was the lunch bell that woke me. At least, I hope it was the lunch bell. I force myself to my feet, ignoring the screaming protest from my back, which had gotten quite fond of the numbing cold. Two quick steps to the door of my cell, push it open, and—

There is a plate of food in front of me. The hand holding the plate has a black half-glove that is secured to the middle finger and turns into a sleeve that disappears under the thick edge of a beige robe being worn by Genjo Sanzo. My eyes are drawn to his violet gaze.

If I were capable of rational thought while those violet eyes held me captive, my only thought would be gratitude that there is no apology in them. As it stands, all I can manage is recognition of the concern that’s mixed with other, heavier emotions too complex to wade through. After a long moment, Sanzo’s eyes flick down to the plate he’s holding, and with relief I take it. It makes a safe place to rest my eyes.

“Thank you.” The first words that come to mind. While appropriate for the situation, they do nothing to acknowledge the circumstances leading up to it. I can feel Sanzo’s heavy gaze on me, demanding something more. “I’m sorry.” The guilt that had been quietly lying in wait for the last two days scuttles out and sinks its claws into me. I have been neglecting Sanzo’s needs today, and there is something else I have done to upset him that I haven’t quite figured out yet.

There is a sigh of weary irritation, and I can imagine Sanzo’s hand massaging his temple. “Just...don’t do that again.”

I numbly nod my head, still not looking up from the plate, and after a moment I can hear him walking away. I am left in the hallway outside my cell, holding a laden plate and mentally beating myself about the head and shoulders, trying to figure out what it is that I’m not to do again. After a moment, I go back into my cell and sit at the tiny table inside it, eating absently as I try to figure it out. What have I done today that runs counter to what Sanzo wants of me? My actions with the vines can be omitted – I don’t think he knows that I spent the night burning vines and portions of my psyche. My hands? A moment examining the various cuts and scratches rules that out, as well. Washing my hands thoroughly in very cold water took off the blood and darkened scabs, leaving only very pale ones that are hardly noticeable unless you look for them. Washing. Breakfast. I neglected to wake Sanzo for breakfast. Would this be enough to upset him like that? Or is it the fact that I didn’t eat breakfast? I didn’t find him for lunch, either. He had to come and find me, and when he did find me...I have to assume he saw me unconscious. That train of thought loops back and strings itself together with the events of yesterday; it is entirely possible that Sanzo thinks I haven’t been eating. Relief floods my tired mind. That’s easy enough to obey, since I’ve already made the decision to eat enough to keep myself going.

Lunch and contemplation both done, I feel as though I have been set back on my path towards atonement. Quiet determination to follow that path to its end fills me as I take my plate back to the kitchen, and not even the darkening evening sky shakes me. It was the dinner bell, then, that woke me, and I missed lunch entirely. No wonder Sanzo was upset. Well, I won’t let that happen again. My little garden calls to me, but I must keep my word to Sanzo. The library, then, is where I spend the next few hours.

I read in silent contentment until the librarian stats dousing the lamps. It is a few hours to midnight, close enough that I won’t have spent the entire night outside. I must be alert enough to properly see to Sanzo’s needs tomorrow, and the only way my back will let me sleep is if it has been numbed with the cold. Silently, I slip out of the library and through the temple until I am outside Sanzo’s room. A momentary pause to ensure that his room is dark, and then to my little garden with the guilt nipping at my heels. I know that Sanzo would disapprove if he knew what I was doing; I am as good as lying to him. But I do need to sleep. Between me sleeping outside and me not sleeping, I think Sanzo would understand my decision.

The stone Buddha is waiting for me, smiling reassuringly as I kneel before it and spend several minutes in meditation. The vows I’d made to myself and to the memory of Kanan, the day’s events and my improper actions – all are reviewed and weighed. The vows are reinforced, and I feed a little bit more of myself to the guilt at having made Sanzo worry. When I have attained a half-trance and my mind is firm and determined, I mindfully lay myself on the cold grass among the ashes of my soul. My back throbs for a while, and I let my mind empty until I am just an outline, a vessel of awareness filled with physical sensations. The stars shine placidly in the smooth, dark sky, and I realize I’ve never looked at the stars in all the time I’ve spent in this garden. Eventually, the throbbing dims to a dull ache, and with my mind full of stars I let myself drift off to sleep.  
  
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_Light, pouring into my eyes, burning them until all I see is harsh bloodstained gold, shining through the ruins of my eyes, burning into my brain. Fiery golden light, the sun itself, searing my soul and purifying my unworthy self, leaving me a scorched ghost. A spirit, baptized in blood and golden fire, the echo of a man. Something no longer tied to fragile flesh. I am floating, formless, through the searing, cleansing light. I am pure, I have atoned through the burning away of all my sins. This golden light grants me forgiveness, restores me to the cleanliness I had held before my hands became stained with blood. Now that blood has been burned away, and what is left is free of what I had become._

_There is a shadow in the light, a figure barely detected among the brilliant gold. The life-energy of this other soul reaches me, and I can feel the deep wounds it has suffered, and the peculiar vulnerability of not holding its aggressors responsible for the violence inflicted upon it. Kanan – I’m coming. I reach out to the spirit, eagerly touching the energy that is so desperately reaching out to me. In the timeless golden light we come closer, and after an eternity an image begins forming. If this ethereal form could weep, the anticipation of seeing Kanan’s face again would drive me to shed tears of hope and joy. The image slowly becomes clearer, hair and features crystallizing around eyes that look at me with a hurt so profound that I am consumed with loathing at myself for betraying a soul this vulnerable, a spirit that reaches out to me in desperation and without even a hint of malice or accusation at the wounds I must have inflicted to have that look of forlorn disappointment turned upon me. Colors bleed into the image; the hair soaks up the gold of the light, leaving those hurt, betrayed eyes a deep purple. The mouth opens and soundless words form, each syllable striking the core of my very being in reproachful admonishment that I cannot hide from or evade._

_“You promised.”_  
  
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Sun in my eyes; I shade my face carefully with one hand before daring to peel my eyelids apart. Sun? In my eyes? I’m on my back, hand directly above my face. Almost noon. I’ve slept through breakfast – I must have worried Sanzo. After what happened yesterday, he must be very upset. Unforgivable. I have to find him and apologize. I have to –

I fling myself to my feet in a rolling motion, and immediately three bits of information strike my brain and my train of thought, such as it is, grinds to a panicky stop. First, my attempt to stand failed, and I have returned rather abruptly to a sitting position. Second, there is a sickeningly familiar blanket tangled around my legs. Third, Genjo Sanzo is sitting not three feet from me. The look in his eyes teases my frozen thoughts, but the only recognition it gets is a vague, dreamlike memory of guilt for something I can’t quite remember. Somehow, I am able to meet his gaze with a steadiness I don’t feel, my entire soul exposed to him, every fiber in my being ready to accept whatever anger of disappointment he wishes to express.

He says nothing, not even chiding me with his eyes. He is looking straight at me, but it is as if I am not there. There is no recognition of my presence – I simply do not exist to Sanzo. Anger, hurt disappointment, even that unnerving apology: all these I could have handled. This dispassionate dismissal is more than I can face; my gaze drops to the blanket, and out of the need to focus my attention on something, I begin untangling and folding it carefully. This is Sanzo’s blanket, I force myself to acknowledge. Sanzo brought this blanket out here because he didn’t want me to be cold. He shouldn’t have to worry like this about me. I look up, ready to voice this thought, but that same uncomprehending stare makes the words dry up and drives my gaze back down to the blanket, now folded neatly in my hands.

“I’ll just bring this back to your room.” The words fall short of the proper tone Right Speech demands, sounding nervous and cowardly. Sanzo’s expression does not change even as I scurry by him; it’s as though he doesn’t hear or see me at all.

After fleeing Sanzo’s disquieting presence, I am shamefully reluctant to return to it. I find myself in front of the cleaning supply store room, telling myself that I am seeing to his needs. The mindful cleaning of his room takes a depressingly short amount of time. By the time the cleaning supplies have been returned to their proper place, Sanzo has still not returned to his room. Swallowing my reluctance, I make my way back to the little garden, and am not surprised to see that he hasn’t moved at all. For several minutes I stand in the entrance, watching him sit motionless until the lunch bell rings. He stands up stiffly, turns to leave, and stops just short of where I stand.

The bell tolls unheard while Sanzo’s sterile gaze burns into me. He deserves to know why I was sleeping outside. However, knowing the reason for my actions would be putting my own failings on his shoulders, and I can’t bring myself to burden him with my pain. Right Speech demands I not tell a falsehood; it also directs not to speak unnecessarily. These conflicting directives pull me one way and the other until I finally decide to keep my silence until Sanzo asks. But he doesn’t. After it becomes obvious that he’s not going to say anything, I bow and step aside to let him pass. He looks at me awkwardly for a moment, then walks off quickly, head down as though to avoid me.

I trail after him halfheartedly until I realize he’s not going to the dining hall. That becomes my destination, and in what’s become almost a ritual I assemble lunch on a tray for him, grab some bread and cheese for me, and leave his lunch in his room. Not wanting to impose on Sanzo should he return, I find a quiet corner and eat in silence, guilt gnawing at me for my transgression this morning. By the time the dinner bell rings, I am too miserable to believe that I deserve to eat, and too ashamed to face Sanzo. I can’t even bring myself to knock on his door; I just leave a tray in the hall for him, and retreat to my cell and the flickering circle of light shed by a candle from the store room.

The candle burns quietly on the tiny table; I sit on my cot, as far away from it as I can get. The hallucinations don’t come; the light is still too strong, but I can’t bring myself to put it out. My heart nearly jumps out of my chest when the door opens and Sanzo steps in quietly; I can’t begin to guess what he’s read in my face, but he says nothing and seats himself in the simple chair. My eyes drop to his feet. We sit in silence for a long time, the candle burning lower as time passes unmeasured. I glance up at him every once in a while, but he says nothing. He just looks at me, waiting. The candle reaches the point where the hallucinations usually come to me, and I am terrified that Sanzo will see my private horrors. When I glance up at him, however, the whole world freezes, and it seems to be an eternity until my next heartbeat.

Sanzo is dead.

His corpse sits propped up in the chair, face and clothes covered in dried blood from hundreds of small wounds, as though he’s been beaten to death. His skin is bloodlessly pale, and his dead eyes stare sightlessly at me. I bring my teeth down hard on my lower lip and squeeze my eyes shut as my mind threatens to shatter into a million pieces, and when I open my eyes, Sanzo is looking at me strangely.

My hands are suddenly fascinating, drawing my eyes down to where they clasp each other.

“I’ve been deceiving you.” My voice is a strangled whisper. Sanzo says nothing, but I can feel his intent gaze on me. “I spend the nights outdoors because I must, if I’m to get any sleep at all.” There is no attempt at Right Speech, and my voice sounds worn and harried.

“...Don’t feel well indoors?” Sanzo’s voice is carefully casual, as though trying to ignore how shaken I am.

A shudder runs through me and I look up quickly to make sure we are alone, and he is alive. We are, and he is. “I suppose it would sound silly if I said I was afraid of the dark,” I start slowly. “I’m not, though.” He nods once in a deliberate manner, reassuring and encouraging and most importantly, not judging. “It’s the silence.”

Sanzo says nothing, just looks at me measuringly. Behind him, Kanan spreads her cold, white arms, silently pleading with me. I wrap my own arms around myself and resolutely focus on Sanzo’s face, which currently bears a guarded expression.

“You should bring a thicker blanket with you if you’re going to sleep outside,” he says in a remarkably offhand manner, considering the phantom blood Kanan’s bleeding on him. “Or find someplace indoors that isn’t so quiet.”

A bitter chuckle escapes me, banishing the specter. “What part of a _temple_ , at night, isn’t quiet?”

“Well, I wouldn’t recommend sleeping in one of the meditation halls, for obvious reasons.” Sanzo’s lips curve into a sarcastic smirk at the jab towards the other, less tolerant residents of the temple.

His eyes unfocus a bit as he drifts off into thought, leaving me alone with the flickering light. After a minute or so, his skin gets that particular paleness to it, and a gaping hole over his temple bleeds thick clots of blood into his hair. It startles me as Kanan’s specter hasn’t done since the first night, and I rock back and forth slightly trying to keep calm. Or at least, trying not to gibber or bolt.

“I don’t know if I can really do much about the quiet,” he finally says dubiously, turning each word over in his mouth as though making sure it’s not hiding an answer before he lets it go.

“It’s okay. I’ll just sleep outside.” My words are clipped, almost rushed. I’m mentally urging him to leave; I don’t know how much longer I can take this, with every second threatening to show me a gruesome hallucination of Sanzo’s corpse.

“If it rains, that won’t be a good idea. Not at this time of year.”

The obvious disapproval threatens to spawn hysterical laughter in my chest; I fight it down. “...I’ll live,” I finally manage in a blatantly self-mocking tone.

Sanzo flinches and looks away, an unremarkable section of floor suddenly capturing his interest as completely as my hands had captured mine a while back. “If you don’t make any noise about it, and it’s that bad, you can spend the night in my room.”

For the second time that night, the world freezes and stands still. Suddenly, there is nothing to laugh about.

_~In the event that a dead face that is not Kanan’s ever stares back at me from the silent darkness, I will dedicate my worthless life to keeping that person from harm and being attentive to any indication that anything is wrong.~_

The memory of my earlier resolution slams into me in the wake of Sanzo’s offer. I need to know. I need to be sure before anything else happens. If this is my second chance, I absolutely can not, must not fail.

“It’s late. You should go to bed.” Right Speech comes effortlessly, but then again, most of me is still in shock. I stand up calmly and fetch the dying candle, every movement smooth and precise. “Here, take the candle. I won’t need it.”

Sanzo looks at me penetratingly, but there is nothing behind my eyes except silence and Right Intention.

“...Are you sure you don’t want the light?”

He’s offering, giving me a way out. Any other time, I might accept. But right now, I need the darkness. I look away before he sees that in my eyes. “I’ll be fine.”

Sanzo gives me another measuring look, then nods once and takes the candle. I watch him leave, eyes tracking the light as it moves down the hallway, and then there is only silence, and darkness.

_Come out,_ I challenge the hallucinations. _Show me what lurks in the dark corners of my heart. Show me who I care about._

I can lie to myself, but the grisly visions tell me the truth. I feel my way back to the cot and sit, waiting for the blood-soaked horrors to tell me my worst fears. Waiting to see if I have been given the opportunity to atone for Kanan’s fate.

It doesn’t take long.

Despite my bold words, I can’t bear the hallucinations for very long. After about a half an hour, the images of Sanzo’s corpse start to erode my sanity. Well, at least I got my answer. Thankfully, only one hallucination haunts me at a time. If I’d been faced with Sanzo’s corpse and Kanan’s specter at the same time, I wouldn’t have been able to maintain the fragile hold I’m just barely keeping on my composure. It’s hard to tell which does more damage to my nerves – seeing Kanan accuse me of failing to save her, or seeing Sanzo accuse me of letting him die so that I could rejoin Kanan.

When I feel myself slipping closer to animal panic, I stand up with as much calm as I can muster. Almost as an afterthought, I grab the blanket off the cot and interrupt Sanzo’s corpse as it bleeds sluggishly from knife wounds on its arms.

“If you don’t mind,” I say politely, sketching a bow, “I’m going outside now.” I do my best not to flinch as one cold hand closes around my upper arm, but I do pull firmly away and hurry out of the cell, shutting the door behind me.

The cold and damp of the garden is a familiar tactile experience, almost washing away the memories of hallucinatory blood. It feels bizarre to wrap myself up warmly in the blanket and breathe in the chill air, but I do it. Sanzo has made it abundantly clear that if I’m sleeping outside, I am to keep myself warm – and his wishes are no longer something I can argue with. Strangely enough, however, between the warmth of the blanket and the chill air, I find myself dropping quickly off to sleep. _I must remember to wake up early,_ I think fuzzily, and then sleep claims me.  
  
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I come awake all at once, which is a welcome relief. Dawn’s not far off. I fold the blanket and return it to my cell, then bathe and dress. The scabs on my back are firmly established; I am careful to not scrape them off, but my back no longer aches with every touch. I present myself to the kitchen almost before the breakfast bell rings, quickly assemble a selection of foods on a tray, and am able to get to Sanzo’s door before the bell stops tolling. To my surprise, Goku is sitting sullenly in the hall, leaning against the door to Sanzo’s room with his arms crossed.

“Goku?” It’s not terribly eloquent of me, but seeing the boy so sullen is a shock.

“He won’t let me in.” The complaint is somewhere between a whine and an accusation. Giving me a wait-and-see look, he reaches up behind him and bangs on the door. “Saaaaaaannnnnnzzzzzoooooooo...”

Silence.

“See?” He tries to glare over his shoulder, but it doesn’t work very well and he settles on giving me an exasperated look instead.

Balancing the tray on one hand, I rap my knuckles against the wood as I do almost every morning.

Silence.

“I’ve brought you breakfast,” I offer mildly.

Silence.

I stare thoughtfully at the door for several minutes. It’s obvious that Sanzo wants to be left alone; my decision to bow to his wishes dictates that I leave him be. It’s not that simple, I realize. Think. Why does Sanzo want to be left alone? I suddenly realize that I’ve never tried to understand why Sanzo acts the way he does – I was always concerned with figuring out what I was doing to cause him distress, not why it distressed him. Time to correct this oversight.

“Sanzo?” My tone is politely inquiring. No answer.

How do I convince Sanzo to open the door when he is obviously trying to convince me to go away? The knowledge that I will be going against what he wants digs at me, but I counter the guilt with the knowledge that I must be attentive to any problem, and I can’t do that if I’m hiding from him. If Sanzo is trying to convince us to go away, there must be something wrong, and I’ve made it my responsibility to try to at least understand what it is. Back to the problem at hand – how do I get Sanzo to let me in? Goku is calling Sanzo’s name again, trying to be irritating enough that Sanzo opens the door to make him be quiet.

Wait, that might be it. Not whining, of course. I think that would convince Sanzo that I’ve lost my mind, more than anything else. But doing something Sanzo doesn’t want me to might work. The question is, what can I do? A list of actions that have upset him in the past flashes through my mind, but they are all discarded. Too many of them would cause harm to me or pain to him, and that’s a bit extreme for the situation at hand. What else, then, does Sanzo not want me to do?

_~Don’t worry about me.~_

Worrying about Sanzo. Will that even work? Was it just an offhand comment, or something he felt strongly about? After a moment’s consideration, I realize it doesn’t matter. Either way, I’ll be learning something about the way Sanzo’s mind works.

“Sanzo?” Less polite now, more urgent. Rapid knock. “Sanzo?” A touch of panic slides into my voice. Goku’s looking at me skeptically; I wink at him, then screw my face up into something close to full-fledged panic. “Sanzo, are you okay?” Frantic pounding on the door. “Sanzo!?”

I turn to watch Goku as he climbs to his feet, looking duly impressed. With my head turned to the side, I am able to catch the subtle click of the lock being turned. He must really have better hearing than I do – as soon as the door is unlocked, he opens it. It’s as though he heard Sanzo cross the room. By the time I’ve settled my features back into being calm and polite, Goku is perched solidly on the bed, giving Sanzo a hard, unblinking golden stare. Sanzo in turn is sitting at the table as though he’s sat there all night. Obviously, there is something going on here that I’m not aware of.

Surreptitiously watching Sanzo, I place the tray on the table and serve him from the generous selection of foods. He glares at it as I serve myself and indicate to Goku that there’s plenty for him, too. Goku nods once in acknowledgement, then continues glaring at Sanzo. _I know what you’re doing,_ his eyes say. I glance at Sanzo as I sit down, and find him looking at me intently. Not sure what else to do, I smile placidly at him, and after a moment he looks away. Be calm, I tell myself. Eat mindfully. I keep that impersonal smile on my face as I try to figure out the strange look Sanzo had given me. There was anger, certainly, but I don’t think it was directed at me. It was more along the lines of the mask he uses to keep the other monks and priests away. The anger, then, was just to cover up the other emotions there. What else was behind the anger? I stare off into space as I try to remember that peculiar look. Accusation – Sanzo was accusing me of something. The calculating corner of my brain points out that Sanzo is giving me another intent look. I attempt to keep my expression blank and simultaneously look at him, but can’t quite manage it and only get a glimpse before he looks away again. Confusion. Something about me has confused Sanzo, and the accusation is a demand for some answer to satisfy his curiosity.

“I’m going to be gone for a few days.” The statement is thrown into the silence like a challenge.

“Where are you going?” Goku’s question is a challenge as well, but Sanzo only glares. “You’re taking-”

“No.” The word is iron, absolute. “I’m going alone.”

Somewhat bewildered, I watch the argument unfold. Goku is unusually intent, and angry at being left behind. Sanzo isn’t budging in his stance; he’s going, and Goku is staying to “watch over things” for him. That is to say, me. Goku shoots me a glare at that, but seems to be expecting me to help him argue the point rather than being angry at me. The sense of there being something I don’t understand is undeniable; the tension is almost visible between them. I’m still deflecting that confused glare every once in a while, but for the most part Sanzo is like a fire: his determination is hot and all-encompassing, burning through all objections with relentless anger. Goku makes one last argument, expressing the incredulous doubt that surely, Sanzo isn’t going to travel, alone, in the rainy season...?

The wordless stare Goku gets in response is quite possibly the deadliest thing I’ve ever seen, beating out a group of several large men with swords and the youkai that gave me that gut wound. The edge of it makes me feel suddenly that I don’t really want to die after all, and with a final look of disgust, Goku drops the subject. The argument dies a horrible death, Sanzo the undisputed winner.

Delicately avoiding the subject of Sanzo’s impending departure, I begin collecting the mostly-untouched breakfast supplies. Goku watches me moodily, Sanzo just glares.

“Don’t bother with lunch,” he says shortly as I turn to leave.

Noncommittal smile firmly in place, I nod and Sanzo turns away. Goku follows me out into the hall as though I am the last voice of reason in the world. There is no cover on the tray, and I hold it where he can reach the food easily. He nibbles absently as he follows me to the kitchen, and by the time I return the dishes, they are empty. He looks around distractedly as I stack them on the counter, then wanders off. I excuse myself from the kitchen and hurry after him.

“Goku?”

He gives me a kicked-puppy look and climbs up a nearby tree, then sits swinging his legs forlornly.

“What’s wrong?” Sanzo’s behavior is somewhat within the range of what I’ve come to consider normal for him, but this sullenness from Goku is very abnormal. If I can get him to talk, there’s a good chance his tendency to say whatever’s on his mind will give me some hint as to why there was so much tension about Sanzo leaving.

Goku sighs. “He’s always doing this!” The words burst out in sheer frustration. A particularly hard swing turns into a kick against the trunk of the tree. “He gets real cranky and then he just ups an’ leaves an’ he just leaves me here!”

The vehemence surprises me; Goku is more upset at being left behind than at anything else. Before I can form a response, however, an officious-looking monk turns the corner into the courtyard and starts throwing a fit, demanding that Goku come out of the tree. The boy merely snorts and climbs higher, vanishing into the mess of branches and leaves, and I quietly excuse myself.

Two hallways and a turn later, I realize the error I’ve made. If Sanzo does this often enough for it to be a routine, then when Goku’s recovered from the initial rejection, he will surely seek Sanzo out and try to convince the monk to let him come along. The obvious solution is for Sanzo to leave before that can happen. The line of logic runs in a tight circle; Goku seeks Sanzo sooner to catch him before he leaves, Sanzo leaves sooner to avoid Goku, repeat several times. The gate. I break into a shameless run, skidding around corners and pushing myself off the walls in attempts to reach the courtyard by the stairs before Sanzo is gone. He must have prepared a pack in advance and left almost as soon as we were out of sight. The courtyard is empty, as are the stairs. Hopefully, I haven’t missed him. I lean against the wall by the front gate and catch my breath, listening for the slap of sandals on the stone behind me to herald Sanzo’s approach.

Two minutes later, Sanzo furtively darts up to the doorway to my left, and I step out from the wall just as he leaves the building. There is a long moment where I am glared at in such a way that I understand I am not to even consider bringing up the possibility of my coming along. The look I give him in return is calm, unaccusing, and firm.

“When should we expect your return? Goku is quite upset.” My voice is even and smooth, sounding vaguely interested in the answer, and rather unconcerned.

“Four days. Six if the traveling conditions are bad.”

He challenges me to say anything about what those conditions might be, or what the results are. Not knowing why this is a sore subject, I merely bow and step out of his way. He looks tired somehow as he stalks through the courtyard and down the stairs. I stand there and watch long after he’s vanished into the foot traffic, thinking about what I’ve seen this morning. Goku says he does this often, and his hurrying out certainly leads me to believe that I’m on the right track with figuring out the reasons behind his actions. Cranky, Goku said. And he looked tired, but if he were physically exhausted, he wouldn’t set out on a four-day journey on foot. It must be a mental exhaustion, then. Considering how hard he seems to work to keep the other residents of the temple from bothering him, I’d be willing to wager that he needs time away from them. My eyebrows draw together in a frown as pounding footsteps hurry down the hall towards me. He leaves Goku here. He wouldn’t do that if he were just trying to avoid the temple; Goku has no official or unofficial position here. Well, with Goku’s seemingly limitless energy, it’s understandable that Sanzo would need a few days to himself every so often.

Goku bursts through the doorway next to me and stops dead, panting. “He’s already gone, isn’t he?” The words are devoid of any sort of hope, and the boy’s shoulders droop.

I nod quietly. “Goku?” He looks at me with a sort of forlorn hope. “Have you traveled with Sanzo in the rainy season before?” My tone is carefully casual; I’m fishing for information, groping my way towards a realization. He nods slowly. “Can you tell me what’s different from traveling with him in drier weather?”

Goku glares at the city of Chang An in general. “He starts getting really angry at everyone, glaring a lot but not yelling like he usually does. An’ he looks funny, kind of pale, an’ he coughs and sneezes a lot, and then he locks himself in a room somewhere an’ won’t come out or talk to anyone for a few days.” His golden eyes seem very large and innocent as he looks at me questioningly. “Why d’you want to know that?” His face screws itself into a scowl and he kicks at an unoffending pebble. “He’ll probably lock himself in his room the instant he gets back, an’ we won’t see him for at least three days. Always doing this,” he mutters, slouching back inside.

I stand in the courtyard for several more minutes, turning over this new information. So close...I can almost feel the answer, just outside my reach. I need more information. With one last glance out towards Chang An, I turn and make my way to the library.


	7. Empty Vessel

            The library has an extensive section of medical texts, but one of the lesser librarians is able to point me to a rather thick volume detailing illnesses common to this area. Not knowing exactly what it is I’m looking for, I resort to skimming each entry and comparing the short list of symptoms Goku gave me to the listed symptoms of each ailment. It quickly becomes apparent that I’m not going to find what, exactly, Sanzo comes down with. Or at least, not easily.

            The lunch bell rings while I’m marking likely ailments with bits of ribbon. There’s an instinctive turn towards the door before I remember that Sanzo won’t be back for a few days. That thought brings a wrenching sense of loss that leaves me feeling hollow, as though without him here, I am just a puppet going through the motions of living. Despair tramples the remnants of the guilt that has been with me almost constantly for the last month, and then the cold stirring in my gut starts.

            _No,_ I think as the tendrils of cold, steely determination wind their way through my body, filling my bones with unbreakable ice. _I will not give in. I will not let my weakness cause me to fail Sanzo._

              Four to six days. I have at least four days to determine what Sanzo’s most likely to come back sick with, and prepare to treat it as best I can. I turn back to the book and purposefully go through the entries, marking any entry that looks possible with a scrap of ribbon. Time passes without me being aware of anything past the little table I’m sitting at, and the dinner bell finds me discarding the last few entries as being improbable. Between six and a dozen bits of ribbon mark the likeliest sections. I’ll have to do some more research to narrow those down, but that will have to wait. Sanzo’s absence is no excuse for self-neglect; I need to eat.

           With symptoms and mental notes swimming around in my head, I am almost to the dining hall before I realize that the drumming sound I’d been tuning out is rain. I pause a moment, staring out a window at the sheets of water pounding the stones of the courtyard outside. The wind whips the curtain of rain almost sideways; the rain is going the same direction Sanzo was headed when he left. Shaking my head, I hurry to the dining hall and grab my usual simple dinner. I can’t exactly eat outside, so I find a deserted corner and finish eating quickly, leaving almost before anyone notices I’m here.

           The head librarian is lighting the lamps when I return to the library; the storm has killed the daylight that usually fills the temple. Watching his careful actions, I suddenly realize I won’t be able to sleep outside. Spending the whole night in my cell is out of the question; that just leaves Sanzo’s room. The thought of invading his personal space while he’s not there makes me uncomfortable, and I push the problem out of my mind for the moment. There are several probable illnesses that must be examined.

           Halfway through the first of my marked entries, it becomes clear that working on symptoms alone won’t help at all. Instead, I fix my attention on how the illness is contracted. Sanzo gets sick when it rains, I know that much. This entry can be eliminated from the list of possibilities; Sanzo would have to have been exposed to a virus or being very close proximity with an infected person, and I can’t imagine that with his need to get away from people, he’d be spending more than a minute that close to anyone. This one might be a possibility except that it involves a rash, and Goku said Sanzo becomes pale.

           I’ve eliminated most of the possible entries by the time the lamps are being put out. Quietly, I slip the book back into its place and make my way down to the store room for a lamp of my own. My feet follow the usual routine, and I find myself blinking at the interior of my cell. I can’t stay here; the silence will kill me. Lamp in one hand, blanket in the other, I make my way outside, only to find that it’s still raining. I can’t stay in the garden, either. With no other choice, I make my way back to Sanzo’s room and slip inside. The rain pounds against the metal storm shutters, the wind causing them to rattle and threaten to come open.

           I have never figured out why the hinges and latch are damaged like that, but the shutters don’t close securely and must be wedged shut. I check them to make sure they won’t blow open, then set the lamp on the table and consider trying to sleep. My two obstacles for sleep are silence and darkness – and I have the counters for those. The lamp easily lights the whole room, and the storm prevents a silence from forming. I should be able to sleep. My eyepiece goes onto the table; the lamp comes down to the floor by me. Wrapped in my blanket, I close my eyes and try to get some rest.

           My world becomes sound and flickering light; my awareness seems to leave the boundaries of my body lying on the floor, and roam the closed room. It’s not quite sleep, but I find myself in the in-between place where my nightmares lurk. Cold and merciless, I once again cut my way through the halls of the Dark Crow clan, reliving the slaughter that set me on this tortured path. The bang of the shutters jerks me out of it; the flicker of lamplight on my eyelids tells my skittish brain that someone else is in the room. Panic surges through me; I sit up and scan the room, but there is just the storm and the lamp. I lay back down, focusing on the dancing flame, trying to calm down. When my heart stops racing, I close my eyes again and let the flickering light lull me back down to sleep.

           This time, I don’t even get to where the nightmares wait for me. My awareness seems to fill the room, searching for something. With the noise of the storm, however, I wouldn’t be able to hear if anyone entered the room. A gust of wind hits the shutters, and the lamp flickers sharply. Someone in the room, and I didn’t hear them-! Again I jerk awake, but the room is empty.

           Well, this isn’t going to work.

           Irritably, I blow out the lamp and lie determinedly back down. Without the flickering light tricking my brain into panicking over intruders, I drop quickly down into sleep. With the rain beating against the shutters, however, my sleep is anything but restful. I find myself running between nightmares, trapped in an unholy mesh of the Dark Crow compound and Hyakugan Maoh’s castle. Proportions are wrong; my knife is several feet long, cleaving youkai into chunks. Blood gushes out in fountains, running ankle-deep in places. Fangs, claws, limbs – all are stretched and elongated until it’s a miracle the youkai don’t tangle themselves up in it. And then I’m looking down at my own hands, and they’re not hands. I can feel the bloody chi well up in me, pushing at the shape of my body. My fingers are becoming claws. My ears are growing points. Sharp pain in my lips tells me that my teeth are becoming fangs. And still the chi rises, like a tide of blood and horror, until in my sleep I cry out as though I could expel that unwanted chi with my voice.

           I wake up with my hands clenched, nails digging into my palms, focusing the memory of that nightmare chi out, away from me, and desperately needing light to banish the darkness. Half rolling, half flopping, I turn to stare at the dark lamp, panic pouring out of my eyes as I realize I don’t have a flint. No way to light the lamp. No way. No light. No light! NO! I _will_ the lamp to be lit; I don’t want to be alone with the darkness, with the nightmares, with the hallucination of Sanzo’s pale, bloated corpse coming in the door. I need light...light! LIGHT!

           The tip of the wick glows red, then with a tiny pop that causes ripples of silence to permeate the world, the lamp lights itself and the room fills with a warm light.

           For a long minute, I sit there looking at the flame dancing cheerfully on the end of the wick. That didn’t just happen; it couldn’t have happened. I must have imagined it, imagined blowing out the lamp. That has to be it.

           At least, that’s what I tell myself, but every silent word only serves to cement in me the certainty that I _did_ do it. With trembling hands, I reach out and remove the glass cover on the lamp. Right Concentration – focusing all of one’s awareness on something. The youkai healer was able to focus his chi to heal my wound. I am, as the nightmares remind me so cruelly, a youkai. Therefore, I should be able to focus my chi.

           I blow the lamp out, waiting until the smoke trails off, until my eyes adjust to the darkness. Until Kanan’s specter sits watching me from the corner, blood running across the floor in rivulets that creep ever closer to me. Looking only at the lamp, I focus and try to regain the single-mindedness that had consumed me as I clawed up out of my nightmare. Mindfulness doesn’t bring me there; it is not until Kanan’s corpse starts shuffling towards me and the panic beats against my skull that I can feel my chi seething just underneath my skin. The corner of me that is cold and calculating grasps that panicky chi and hurls it at the lamp; my entire being is focused on the need for light to banish the hallucination. There is a spark, a click, and I can just barely feel the chi flow out of me. I can feel the wick ignite; light again fills the room, and Kanan is no longer there.

           Bemused and slightly bewildered, I sit on the floor and stare blankly at the lamp burning nonchalantly before me. This must be what the butterfly feels like when he first catches sight of his reflection – is this really me? Granted, I crawled out of a chrysalis made of blood and death and emerged a monster, but the act of actually using my chi has stunned me beyond the reach of my guilt. And yet...that’s not all. There is something else, something I’m missing. Some greater revelation waits just beyond my comprehension. Patiently, I wait for it, letting my mind drift over the last few weeks. Unfortunately, it refuses to cooperate and sits just beyond my reach.

           There are still a few hours before dawn. I blow out the lamp again; if I am to atone for the actions that caused me to have this chi, I must learn to use it so that I can negate those actions with their opposites. My eyes adjust quickly, and instead of focusing on mindfulness, I instead focus on the weak awareness of the life-energy that infuses my flesh. After a few minutes, I can feel it pulsing quietly in tune with my heartbeat. Somewhere in the room, Kanan’s form lurks –  but my attention is focused inwards. When I can almost shape the flow of energy, I shift the center of my focus to the cold lamp wick. The chi follows my focus, but does not catch on the wick. It slides away as though the wick were greased, and the state of intense concentration dissipates with my disappointment. Again I focus on my energy and again shift that focus to the wick, willing my chi to follow. Again, the chi slides away, not catching. If not for the chill draft coming from the broken shutters, I would be bathed in sweat from my efforts. This isn’t working. I’m not going to be able to use my chi effectively if I can only get it to do what I want while I’m panicking.

           Maybe I’m going about this the wrong way. I’m focusing on feeling my chi, then focusing on the lamp wick. Maybe, if I focused on the effect rather than the object? Taking deep, centering breaths, I focus once more on my chi, ignoring the drip-drip of hallucinatory blood from the bed behind me. Carefully, feeling the faint pulse of chi in my blood, I cup the lamp between my hands. My attention is still on my chi, but I slowly move that focus to my hands until I can feel them heat up as my chi collects there. I can almost see it swelling just beyond my skin, glowing a pale blue-white. Moving with agonizing slowness, I bring my hands together until the wick is a mere inch from my flattened palms. The pale blue chi still pulses around them; I will it to bridge the gap. My breathing sounds harsh on my ears and my mouth is dry, but I absolutely will not submit until my will has been obeyed. With faint pops and tingles, I can feel the chi start to bridge the gap like miniature bolts of lightening shooting from one cloud to another. _The wick...pass through the wick._ One tiny bolt obediently jolts from my left palm to the wick, then to my right palm. _Good, now light the lamp._

           I push my chi out to the wick from both palms, willing it to condense and ignite the twist of fiber. With my hands cupping the wick, my chi has nowhere else to go. There is a moment of resistance, and then a tiny flame springs into being. I stare at it a moment, too tired to even feel victorious. _I did it._ Elation fills me, making me lightheaded, and with a dazed smile I lie down before I fall over. I close my eyes to let them rest for a minute, and when I open them again, the lamp has burned out and it is past dawn; the breakfast bell is ringing.

            As I sit up, I discover that I’m sore all over and ravenously hungry. Also, that my eyesight is slightly blurry. I retrieve my eyepiece from the table and hurry to the dining hall. My usual breakfast looks pitifully small on my plate. The thought that I shouldn’t indulge myself nags at me, but is overruled by the thought that chi fuels the body as much as food does, and in the absence of one, the other must make do. If I want to replenish my chi to be able to use it, I will need to eat more than this. With a double serving and a mug of tea, I return to Sanzo’s room to eat. I imagine that I can almost feel my chi replenish itself, and smile at my whimsy. When I’m done, I tuck the lamp into my robes and return my dishes to the kitchen, and the lamp to the store room. Later, when it’s dark, I’ll practice lighting it. Right now, the library is where my time will be best spent.

            The morning is spent memorizing everything the book has to say about the most likely illnesses. I don’t want to waste paper making notes, and anyways, if Sanzo gets sick often, I’ll need to have this memorized if I’m to treat him more than once. Lunch is quick and frugal, just enough to keep me going and no distraction whatsoever from the rain that beats relentlessly down upon the temple. Wandering, I find myself at the door to the Grand Hall, but the memory of the nasal priest’s indignation stays my hand. There must be a lesser meditation hall somewhere. A few minutes’ searching reveals a much smaller room. The Buddha statue is carved out of wood and there is barely space for twenty monks to meditate. It looks...not exactly neglected, but temporarily forgotten in the rain. The candles on either side of the Buddha haven’t been lit, but I don’t need light to meditate. I seat myself before the one on the right, folding my legs up into the lotus position.

            Eyes closed; shut out the outside world. Breathing. Feel the air fill the lungs, listen to it go in and out. Feel the heart beat, blood flowing to each part of the body. No thought. Do not linger on any sensation, merely label all feelings, noises, and thoughts, and put them aside.

            Rain. Breathing. Rain. Uncomfortable. Rain. Restlessness. Rain. Rain. Guilt – push it aside. Rain. Breathing. Rain. Breathing. Rain. Breathing. Calm. Rain. Breathing. Thunder. Memory – Kanan’s blood on stone. Panic. Breathing. Rain. Guilt. Kanan. Rain – wanting – longing – rain lightning light Kanan’s eyes pain no don’t knifebloodrain---!

            Eyes open, the sharp echoes of my breaths rustling in the corners of the room, I regard the calm visage of the Buddha. Obviously, meditation in the rain isn’t going to be very productive, much less a good way to pass the time. I may as well just practice lighting the lamp – it will strengthen my chi and likely knock me out for several hours. Slightly stiff, I unwind my legs and make my way through the empty hallways. Where does everyone go in the rainy season, anyway? How do they spend their time? The kitchen is abandoned; I help myself to bread and cheese enough to last me through the night and then slip away silently, back to Sanzo’s room. The lamp is not waiting on the table – it slipped my mind that I’d returned it to the store room. I deposit my provisions on the table and trace the path back to the store room.

            Well, I’m not going to be able to light the lamp without refilling it first. It takes a minute to locate the lamp oil, and another to fill the lamp, and then I am on my way back to Sanzo’s room. I place the lamp on the floor and seat myself before it. My mind seems to be running at a higher level than normal; I am almost hyper-aware of every sound and motion. Cross-legged on the cool stone floor, I direct that intense awareness inwards, focusing on the threads of light that crisscross inside my body like glowing strands of a spider’s web. The original intent had been to simply light the lamp until the chi-exhaustion knocked me out. Now, however, I find myself distracted by the scintillating strands that branch and intertwine, like the path of blood through my veins. At that thought, the paths change and the shifting colors take on a ruby hue, like Kanan’s blood or Gojyo’s hair. Bemused, I watch the faintly pulsing network, oblivious to anything outside my own body. The subtle pulse of chi illuminating my own blood soothes me, erasing the last week, month, year – letting me drift back to before Kanan entered my life.

            I’d left the orphanage at sixteen. It was either stay there and become part of the system I hated, or throw myself to the nonexistent mercy of an uncaring world and challenge God’s existence with my life. I expected to die, cold and starving, proving God’s existence to be a lie as I ended my wretched life with a wretched death.

           It didn’t quite happen like that.

            Oh, the cold and starving went according to plan. I had no money and no job; I wandered aimlessly, begging or stealing and then moving on. My clothing grew filthy, my hair matted and tangled helplessly. Passers-by avoided eye contact; mothers pulled their children closer and hurried by. I caught something eventually, coughs wracking my body as I staggered from town to town. Finally, I just propped myself up in an alley in whatever nameless little town I’d come to, and waited for the end. I remember an old man with bright eyes peering at me from time to time, and then the darkness claimed me.

            When I awoke, I was most confused. The man with the bright eyes had taken me to his house and was tending to my illness.

            “Don’t get any ideas,” he’d said in a crotchety old voice. “As soon as you’re on your feet, you’re going to work – repay my generosity-” he snorted here, as though mocking himself – “by doing chores.”

            He didn’t want pleasantries or words of false thanks, and I didn’t want to give them. I spent more time there than either of us expected, and in his dour, unflinching manner he taught me the secrets of the body. When I told him he didn’t believe in God, he merely shrugged and said that everyone walks their own path, and those who do not walk with you have no claim on your life. There was no love between us; we both understood that our paths would inevitably diverge. He taught me the theories of chi – being human, the closest we ever came to practical application was using pressure on certain points where the nerves intersect and the weak human chi is strongest.

            Pressure points. Nerves.

            The ruby network shifts, assuming a formation close to the remembered arrangement of points, with shimmering lines crisscrossing between them. Almost entranced, I mentally trace the paths and remember the worn charts the old man had shown me. Feeling the life-energy flow inside me, passing through each of these nodes, I suddenly have a clearer understanding of the pressure-points than I’d imagined possible.

            The demands of my body eventually pull me out of my trance, and from the darkness outside, it must be past sundown. I eat some of the cheese, then focus on the task of lighting the lamp. My chi pulses inside me, and it is much easier to stretch the glowing strands between my palms and ignite the wick. With the chi still humming through my veins, it occurs to me to try to smother the flame with my chi. I stretch the chi between my palms again and attempt to put the flame out by overwhelming it with chi. At first, my efforts just strengthen the flame. I can feel my body tremble at the extended focusing of my chi, and realize that I should take a break before I pass out. By lamplight I nibble some of my purloined bread, but it is the cheese that satisfies the demands of my body. When I have eaten my fill, I turn my thoughts to the problem of smothering a flame.

            What does a flame require?

            Air. Something to burn.

            How does one kill a flame?

            Remove the fuel. Smother it.

            I created the flame by causing a spark with my chi. To extinguish it, I would have to prevent air from reaching it, or separate it from its fuel. Staring thoughtfully at the flickering light, I ponder the problem for a few minutes.

            Wind. If I can form a wind with my chi, I can blow the flame out.

            How do I form wind with chi?

            A few tentative efforts convince me that merely...exhaling chi at the flame is not going to generate even a slight draft. I will have to expel the chi more forcefully in order to generate enough of a breeze to snuff the flame. For the next several minutes I concentrate on my hands, pushing every bit of chi possible into the palms held side-by-side before the lamp. Between the chill draft from the window and the sweat my efforts are producing, the rest of my body feels cold and distant. Finally, when the stress of holding that much chi in hands that feel as though they are on fire has started making me lightheaded, I expel the chi towards the lamp. There is a brief moment of exultation as the slight wind blows the flame out, and then the room tips and cold darkness engulfs me.  
  
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             When I again claw my way out of vague nightmares, there is grey light seeping in through the shutters. I spend a moment wondering what time it is before hunger causes me to double up in pain. The white-hot points of agony in my ear pulse counterpart to the gnawing emptiness in my gut. Almost mindlessly I reach up and grope along the top of the table until my fingers run into a chunk of bread. Still on the floor, I practically inhale it and grope blindly for more. My questing fingers encounter cheese this time, and I devour it. When it is gone, the darkness closes back in on me.  
  
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            Consciousness returns slowly. I drift for what seems like hours, lost in a grey fog where there is vague discomfort. When the fog finally clears, I find myself staring blankly up at the ceiling with the drumming of rain almost drowning out the tolling of the bell. My head feels sandy and my limbs respond sluggishly as I try to stand up. At the sight of the remaining bread and cheese, a ravenous hunger again reduces me to mindlessly stuffing my face. The bread is stale and tasteless, but the cheese tastes better than cheese ever has. I feel a little closer to civilized thought after eating, and while I still feel like I haven’t eaten in days, I also realize that I am in desperate need of a bath.

            The baths are deserted; most of the population of the temple is at...breakfast? Lunch? In any case, I am able to bathe and dress in solitude and silence. Afterwards, I venture to the dining hall for more sustenance. Either the rain is occupying everyone’s attention, or I am being shunned – no one so much as looks up as I heap cheese and chickpea paste on a plate and snag a round of bread before beating a hasty retreat. The selection of foods and position of the sun, dim behind the rain clouds, tell me it was the noon bell rather than the morning bell that rang. I eat under an overhang, watching the rain pour down in curtains and feeling the clean breeze wash over me. It may be as early as tomorrow that Sanzo returns. The kitchen is busy when I return my plate; I slip away and return to the library. I’ll obtain provisions later. I spend the better part of an hour reviewing the suggested treatment for the two illnesses Sanzo is likely to come back with, then visit the laundry and storeroom for various supplies. Extra linens and clean robes, a basin and pitcher, more lamp oil. After a moment’s thought, I take the brazier and charcoal I’d used a few nights back.

            Changing the bedclothes and giving the room a thorough cleaning only occupy me for another hour; there are at least two more before dinner and four after that before the kitchen will be deserted. Arranging the supplies I have already only takes a handful of minutes, leaving me alone with the rain and my memories. Out of a lack of other options, I seat myself in the lotus position and attempt to meditate. The rain beats at my awareness from outside, my memories from inside. After several minutes of skirting panic, I give up and instead focus on my chi. The faintly blue-white energy is not nearly as strong as it was last night; I must have exhausted my chi blowing out the lamp. Well, that will make focusing on it that much more time-consuming. With the rain fading into the background and the network of blue-white strands becoming clearer slowly, time slips away until the ringing of the dinner bell pulls me back into the world.

            Whether it is fear or nerves, I find myself unwilling to brave the presence of the assembled monks and priests in search of food. Instead, I slip through the empty halls and enter the dusty silence of the library. My fingers trail over the spines of the books on a random shelf, nervously caressing the titles and bindings. Almost at random I pluck one from the shelf and seat myself in an alcove to read until the kitchen is deserted. The story absorbs me, and I drift through events like a specter, names and places brushing against my awareness like cobwebs. After an unfathomable length of time, a quiet grunt brings me out of the book, and I discover the librarian glaring at me, the only light in the library coming from the lamp in his hand. Ducking my head in apology, I replace the book on its shelf and allow myself to be herded out.

            The kitchen is, as I suspected, deserted at this hour. Faintly glowing embers in the main hearth let me pick my way to the pantry door, and I begin assembling the supplies I'm likely to need over the next few days. A small wheel of cheese, a large, round loaf of bread. I contemplate borrowing a sharp knife to cut them with, but a swarm of bloody memory fragments obscures my vision and with a shudder I select a dull spreading knife instead. Starch, dairy - I need protein and vegetables. It takes several minutes of searching, but I finally acquire a small crock of chickpea paste and some assorted produce. There is a small honeycomb, carefully wrapped in waxed cloth, but I firmly reprimand myself and leave it where it is. I'm here for nourishment, not to indulge myself. Bread, cheese, vegetables, protein. Now for the liquids I'll most likely need for Sanzo.

            The medical texts suggested diluted fruit juices and clear broth. Juice will have to do; I doubt I could find any broth, much less keep it heated on a little charcoal brazier. There are jugs of fruit juices in the back of the pantry; one of those and a jug of clear water should suffice. After a minute's searching, I am able to find an empty jug and fill it with clear water. A deep drawer yields a cloth big enough to hold most of my purloined supplies, and a few minutes later I am staggering back to Sanzo's room, overburdened but reluctant to make a second trip. The vegetables and juice should be kept cool. Well, the current weather is certainly cold enough to chill produce, and the storm shutters are drafty. Sanzo's little table is easy enough to move; I place the produce and juice jug on it where the draft from the shutters will keep them cool.

            Food. Robes. Bedclothes. Brazier, charcoal, lamp and oil. I run through my mental checklist, ticking each item off. I think I have everything. I am as prepared as I can be, with only guesswork to go on. All that remains now is to wait for Sanzo's return, and I really should rest up in preparation for that. A final look around the room to make sure everything is set, and I reluctantly close the door behind me. Invitation aside, I feel like I'm intruding, and I already know that I won't be able to rest in here. The corridor leading to my cell is silent and dark, almost as though it were a hallway through the dismal realm of Purgatory. My cell door opens without a sound, at the same time inviting and threatening; my unlit cell is an ominous dark blot that yawns before me as though it would swallow me whole. I can feel my heartbeat quicken as I step inside, eyes flicking involuntarily over to the empty corner. I won't be able to sleep here.

            Quickly, before the hallucinations can catch up to me, I strip my bed of sheet and blanket and make my hurried way outside, sandals slapping faintly on the stone. Sanzo's objections to my sleeping outdoors are that it is cold and raining. By keeping warm and dry, I will bypass these concerns. The rain seems to have stopped for the time being; I should be able to get at least a few hours of honest sleep. A few minutes of ducking down back paths and into unused gardens, and a dry corner between the temple, a shed, and an overgrown bush presents itself. I wrap sheet and blanket around myself, then settle into the lee of the bush with the cool stone of the temple against my right cheek. The familiar rustling of leaves in the night breeze calms me, and I succumb to sleep.  
  
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            The tolling of the morning bell drags me up out of a quiet darkness, but the drumming of rain against the shed roof and the warmth of the wool blanket around me push me back down. I can eat later.  
  
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            The noon bell hammers relentlessly against my consciousness, dragging me out of the sleep that, miraculously, was not filled with nightmares. Noon. Sanzo. Still wrapped in my blanket, I pelt down empty halls and throw open the door to Sanzo's room, but it's empty. He's not back yet. Again I run through the halls, this time to the gate. It's raining, a monotonous drizzle that turns the world a bland grey and dampens the spirits of anyone caught in it. I pull a corner of blanket over my head as I leave the protection of a roof and cross the main courtyard. The guards glare sullenly at me as I approach the stairs, but don't stir inside their protected alcoves. I ignore them and sit on the second step, off to the right. The simple wool blends into the stone, making me feel like an extension of the temple, a misshapen carving that no one quite knows what to do with. Being wool, the blanket at least keeps me warm even as it gets wetter. Time becomes meaningless as I sit there in the rain; the thick clouds obscure any hint of the sun. There is no way to measure how much time has passed as I sit and watch the foot traffic of Chang An blankly; everything is just marking time, nothing has meaning without something of significance to provide a point of reference. I don't move at all; I will sit here as long as it takes for Sanzo to return.


	8. Blurred Boundaries

            What seems like eons later, Sanzo's muddy, bedraggled form emerges from the thin crowd, and time resumes. His significance causes my existence to have meaning once again, and I hurry down the steps towards him. He doesn't seem to be aware of me at all until I am right next to him, and then he gives me a look that can't decide if it is demanding an explanation for my presence, demanding my removal from _his_ presence, or fixing upon me as a possible solution to some tangled problem I am not aware of.

            "Sanzo?"

            My voice seems to bring him back to the present, and his eyes focus on me. The look has changed to sullen resignation.

            "My room."

            The words are harsh, a barely-recognizable croak, and a fit of dry coughing causes Sanzo to nearly double over almost before they are out of his mouth. I grasp his shoulders as the coughs wrack him, and hold him upright as he staggers and nearly falls. Despite the chill of the wind and rain, he is definitely fevered, and the breaths he takes once the fit of coughing ends are short and shallow. The set of his shoulders suddenly shifts, and instinctively I remove my hands as he straightens with a visible effort. The glare Sanzo levels at me is the same as when he left - a warning to not ask questions or comment.

            "Don't-" His voice rasps again, and he represses another fit long enough to choke out "let them see-" before he doubles up again in what sounds like a painful storm of coughing.

            While Sanzo's head is bowed, I disentangle myself from the woolen folds of my blanket and drape the rude cloth over him. It hides his robes and head, making him look like just another monk. A quick glance at the gate reassures me that the apathetic guards haven't left their alcoves and are likely oblivious to Sanzo's presence. I may be able to sneak Sanzo inside without anyone knowing he's returned. Of course, it suddenly occurs to me, no one may know he'd left in the first place. I'm fairly certain he didn't announce this trip to the heads of the temple, and if Goku hasn't talked to me in the last four days, then he wouldn't have talked to the monks either, and I certainly didn't mention Sanzo's absence to anyone. Sanzo sways beside me, and I put out a hand to steady him. He's not capable of returning to his room without assistance, and with my head exposed like this, the guards will surely recognize me, and thus, him. If Sanzo wants to make it back to his room unrecognized, he's going to have to share the blanket. Sliding his arm over my shoulder with one hand and tugging a fold of wool over my head with the other, I maneuver us both under the protection of the cloth. Slowly, with much stumbling on Sanzo's part, we make our way up the stairs. He leans on me almost completely in some places, and I duck my head so that my eyepiece doesn’t show. The guards don't even look up.

            An acolyte passes us as we enter the main building, but he doesn't give us a second glance. Other priests are sure to notice, though. The halls are almost completely empty, and we manage to get to his room without incident. He becomes more aware as I sit him on the bed, and does something with the pillow as I light the brazier. The room will warm quickly, but in the meantime he should remain warm and, preferably, dry. I snag a clean robe from the pile and a dry blanket and place them on a chair by the bed before taking the sodden blanket from around Sanzo's shoulders. He shivers, but seems to recognize the wisdom of dry clothes and attempts to untie his robe with stiff, numb fingers. They flutter against my hands as I push them aside and strip both outer robe and wet undershirt off of him. Clean robes can wait - he may be fevered, but his chest is cold and clammy. One hand on a bare shoulder to hold him steady, turn back the bedclothes, and Sanzo practically falls over as another coughing fit takes him. I ease him down to a reclining position, on his side so he can breathe easier, and he falls into an uneasy but exhausted slumber.

            Cough, fever, shallow breathing - all symptoms that support the idea that Sanzo has pneumonia. There is one more thing to check. I move the blanket and robe to the bed, setting them on Sanzo's legs, and take a seat on the chair. The medical texts suggested tapping on the patient's chest, both to diagnose the illness, and to help loosen the mucus that is causing the cough. Carefully, I roll Sanzo onto his back, then spread my fingers on his chest and tentatively tap.

_Warm, after days of cold rain and stumbling and falling in the mud on the road. Wrapped in blankets and propped up against something solid and warm. A woman, middle-aged and stout, with graying hair in a bun and flour-stained clothes. Momentary panic - she's from the local village, she knows who I am and is bound to want to know why I'm wandering around by myself at such a young age._

_"I've called for a doctor to come and look at you. Don't worry, I haven't told anyone who you are."_

_Relief; the world fades out._

_Patches of awareness - listening to the baker's wife ramble about her husband, dead these three years. Her daughter, grown and married and moved away. Her son, who didn't live to see the age of five, he'd be my age now, twelve or so. Warm broth, soft bread, warmth. I'm leaned against the big baking oven._

_Darker patches - nightmares, memories that fade in and out like everything else does right now._

_Clearer thought - I'm well enough to walk, but not fully recovered. It doesn't matter. I can't stay here, I have to go...have to keep moving...have to get them. I have to get them!_

_Slipping out before dawn; no note, no good-byes, no thanking the well-meaning widow who took me in without question and didn't pry into wounds not even scabbed over yet._

            With a sharp inhalation, I lift my hands from Sanzo's chest. They're throbbing, and I swear I can almost feel every individual fiber in the robe that brushes against my skin. What was that? It's not my own memory - I was several years older when I waged my war of apathy against the world, and the one who took me in was an old man, not a middle-aged widow. I stare at my hands as though they contain the answers to every question ever asked, and can just barely see faint lines of sickly-green chi stretch from my fingers to Sanzo's chest. Chi. Life-energy. Did I pick up on what Sanzo is experiencing? No. If that were the case, I wouldn't have seen a baker's widow. A memory, possibly? I cover Sanzo with the blanket, then spread the second blanket over him and put the robe back on the pile. Whatever it was, it does Sanzo no good to be exposed to the chill air while I contemplate it.

            While Sanzo is still unconscious, I take stock of his state of health. His robes protected most of his body from the grime of the road, but his face and hands are splattered with mud. Better to wash that off while Sanzo's still chilled. Not wanting to waste the drinking water, I wrestle the metal storm shutters open enough to hold the wash basin out and let runoff from the roof fill it halfway. The shutters don't latch securely, and it takes a minute before I can get them wedged shut again. I'd prefer to not use water this cold, but I have no way to warm it quickly. If I make it quick, it shouldn't be too bad; he is, after all, already chilled. The wet blanket catches my eye as I look around for something to wash Sanzo with, but it's gotten muddy. On the other hand, the sheet tangled inside of it is clean, if damp. It will do. I dip a corner into the basin, wring it out, and begin washing the mud from Sanzo's face and hands as briskly as I can. He flails blindly at me as I wash his face, but the blows are weak, like those of a tired child. One hand is enough to secure both wrists as I carefully wipe dirt out of the corners of his eyes, and then I release one wrist as I wash the other hand. Sanzo's fingers are thin and very cold; I massage the digits as much as possible through the damp cloth, hoping to encourage circulation.

            Sanzo stirs a bit as I return the sheet to the sodden mass of blanket and robe, his breath whistling as it scrapes in and out of his lungs. I turn to the table to pour him some juice and dilute it, but instead the guilt sinks its claws into my gut. I have juice and clean water, but nothing to pour them into. Behind me, Sanzo is muttering something incoherent. He doesn't seem like he'll be going anywhere in the next few minutes, maybe I can run down to the kitchen and borrow a mug.

            As this thought crosses my mind, however, Sanzo struggles out from underneath the blankets and half-rolls, half-falls out of bed. Breathing heavily but not looking up, he hauls himself onto unsteady feet and staggers towards where I am by the window. I intercept him, but despite rickety balance he seems intent on shaking free of my hands. Grasping his shoulders firmly, I turn him around and guide him back to his bed. He fights me at every step, but weakly, and repeats some phrase I can't quite make out; his voice is too raspy. The closer I get him to his bed, the more frantic he gets, until I can guess at the words he's trying to say.

            "Let me go! I have to get them!"

            The same ambiguous phrase from that vision I'd had just a few minutes ago, but I still have no idea who he's talking about. On the other hand, the 'them' might not be a who, but a what. Sanzo may be weak, but I have no desire to physically restrain him. Perhaps, if I am also ambiguous, I could soothe him...?

            "It's ok," I say reassuringly, mentally crossing my fingers that this works. "They've been taken care of."

            Sanzo goes still, digesting this information. "They have?" He looks up at me curiously, but does not seem to recognize me.

            "They have," I repeat, and he deflates a little.

            "Oh."

            His eyes unfocus, and I am able to get him back into bed without further incident. I still need a mug, but I don't trust that Sanzo will remain in bed for the time it will take me to fetch one. Like a stroke of divine providence, however, the dinner bell begins tolling. Goku. Surely Goku will come to check if Sanzo's returned?

            The knocking on the door and the familiar plaintive, irritated wail have never sounded so beautiful.

            "Saaaaaaannnnnnnzzzzzzoooooooo..." Goku's carefully calculated tone fills the room with tooth-grindingly annoying sound. Sanzo doesn't move.

            I open the door; Goku's blank look of surprise would be amusing under other circumstances.

            "Oh." He blinks, surprise fading to sullen resignation. "He's back."  The words are reproachful, almost spit at the still form on the bed behind me. He scowls, kicking at the floor the way he'd done when I last saw him four days ago, then turns to leave.

            "Goku?" A reluctant grunt is my only acknowledgement. "I don't want to leave the room while he's like this." I gesture to the bed, but Goku's still not looking at me. "Could you please bring me a mug and a bowl of hot broth?"

            "I guess." Goku's shoulders hunch at Sanzo's continued rejection. "I suppose you want a spoon, too?" He shoots a glare over his shoulder, but it is Sanzo it's aimed at. "Don't see why..." He begins slouching down the hall, the rest of the sentence a fading mutter. "...better in a few days without it..."

            I close the door and return to the chair by Sanzo's bed. Whatever I had been expecting the next few days to be like, it wasn't this. Between the heightened awareness that's probably due to my chi and the nagging anticipation of an unexpected action on Sanzo's part, my train of thought keeps jumping and I am unable to concentrate on anything for more than a few seconds. Every time Sanzo stirs restlessly, I half expect him to go after 'them' again, and his often angry-sounding outbursts, incoherent as they are, make me jump. The coughing fits inevitably follow these outbursts, and my guilt intensifies with each one. Without a mug to pour juice into, all I can do is make sure Sanzo doesn't fall out of bed, and wish I'd thought of a way to acquire a tea kettle and a way to heat it. Hot, honeyed tea would be good for Sanzo's raw throat, and I cannot help but feel that I've failed him by not providing some. I had four days, I should have thought of a way to do it instead of playing with the lamp. When Goku kicks the door to announce his return, it is a relief.

            Like the manifestation of my thoughts, a mug of hot tea is thrust at me as soon as I open the door. I take it, and a bowl of broth follows. I let go of the door to take the bowl, and with both items delivered, Goku scowls past me and stalks back down the hallway. The door gets nudged closed with one foot as I turn, and I set the mug by the brazier to stay warm. Sanzo is looking at me with something close to recognition - or at least, he's looking _at_ me, and not at something imagined that might be next to me. At my approach, he hoists himself into a seated position and extends trembling arms for the bowl. This is a good sign. I keep a hold on the bowl until it's been settled on his lap, not trusting the way his arms are shaking.

            "Can you eat by yourself?" I ask quietly, not wishing to patronize him but concerned that he won't be able to hold the spoon steady. Sanzo fixes me with an irritated glare.

            "I'm not a child, Koumyou!"

            Despite the rasp, Sanzo's voice is clear and high - as though he were a child again. The glare accuses me of coddling him, and all I can do is stare back at him in shock. With these stained hands, I could never be worthy of any comparison to Koumyou Sanzo. My train of thought shatters, and my entire being shrieks at me to backpedal away from Sanzo, to deny any connection between myself and his predecessor.

            The shocked silence hangs between us for a long moment before Sanzo shifts uncomfortably and his gaze drops into the bowl on his lap.

            "I'm sorry," he mutters in chastised apology, and begins eating carefully, but it is not me he is apologizing to.

            Pulse still racing, I sit before my legs collapse. My high level of chi is making me aware of the beat of my own blood, as though I can feel my arteries clench and relax inside of me. Is this what Sanzo's like when he's sick? If so, I can't blame him for locking himself in a room, but that doesn't change my resolve. Not eating or drinking for three days would not make Sanzo's recovery any easier, so no matter how nerve-wracking it may be for me, I will not fail him.

            Sanzo lifts the bowl to his lips and drinks the last of the broth. Before he can try to get up, I take the bowl and spoon from him, rinse them in the basin, and set them on the table. I suppose I should eat something, but it seems somehow redundant with my chi beating against my flesh. Instead, I wrestle the shutters open again and pour the contents of the basin out the window, then position it by the bed where Sanzo can easily spit into it. His coughs will become more productive after inhaling steam from the broth, and the more mucus he can clear out of his lungs, the better.

            He's dropped into a restless slumber again; I find myself pacing the room as though the activity would use enough chi to return it to normal. The hyperawareness hasn't calmed down any, yet. Every other step finds my left hand brushing hair away from my ear, obsessively smoothing it away from my inhibitors. This is ridiculous. I'm not going to let my own hair drive me insane like this. I search through Sanzo's belongings for several minutes, not truly seeing anything until I find his travel gear and locate a straight razor. The blade shines in the flickering light, but no horrors stir inside my mind. I'm too distracted by the hairs brushing against my ear. It's awkward, but I am able to cut the hair on the left side of my head short enough that it does not touch my ear at all. That irritation out of the way, I guiltily replace the razor and turn towards the window, where a flicker of motion has caught my attention.

            "Sanzo!!"

            When the reason for one's continued existence is attempting to climb out of a third-story window that one has forgotten to close the shutters to, it is very difficult to keep to Right Speech. My cry is raw and panicky, but Sanzo doesn't turn around. In the few seconds it takes me to cross the room, he's gotten one leg out the window, and I am grateful that the shutters aren't open very wide. He fights me as I drag him bodily back into the room.

            "Let me go!" That high, young voice again. "I have to get them!"

            "Sanzo, stop-"

            "Master Sanzo! I have to get them for Master Sanzo!"

            My attempt to reason with him is cut short. Furthermore, he's not responding to his name as being his own name. Fine; I can work with that.

            "Master Sanzo took care of them! It's okay!" I have to raise my voice before Sanzo seems to hear me.

            "Master Sanzo...is he okay?" He's still struggling, but not as much.

            "Master Sanzo's okay. He's resting." If one tells a lie to someone who is hallucinating, does it still count as a lie? "He says you should rest, too."

            This seems to calm Sanzo down, and when I release him he returns to bed of his own volition. After a second, I remember the mug of tea and fetch it. It's still warm. I bring it to Sanzo, and he seems to actually see me; he takes the mug and drinks with no hint of childish motion, grimacing and scowling at each swallow. When he's done, he hands the mug back and turns over as though trying to ignore me. I rinse the mug in the rain still sheeting past the storm shutters, then wrestle them closed and make sure they're wedged shut.

            The panic seems to have beaten my hyperawareness down a few notches, but there's a distracting itch on my back. I must be sensitive to the rough texture of the cloth; I ignore it. It's going to be a long night, if Sanzo keeps trying to get out the window every half-hour. I drag the chair back away from the bed, placing it in the most direct path from the bed to the window, and settle down to watch Sanzo for a while. After a few minutes, another coughing fit shakes him, and I pour some juice into the mug and dilute it with water. When it's passed, Sanzo rolls over and spits - into the basin. I spend a moment congratulating myself on that bit of foresight, then hold the mug out to Sanzo. He doesn't see it, but seems to be trying to lever himself up, groping for something. I place the mug where his fingers brush it, and he seizes it blindly and takes a drink. He also tries to place it on a table that's not there, and some of the juice splashes out as I lunge to catch it. I can see I'm not going to get much sleep. I refill the mug and set it aside, then shift my various provisions off the small table and move it closer to the bed, and still blocking the easy path to the windows. As I transfer the assorted foods back onto the table, I find myself with a half-eaten carrot in one hand. Huh. I guess I do need to eat, after all.

            Between bringing Sanzo juice after his coughing fits, I nibble steadily at the bread and chickpea paste, with the rest of the carrot thrown in for good measure. When an hour has passed and Sanzo has not made a move for the window, I cautiously hope that he's settled down for the night and sit at the table. For around twenty minutes there is silence, if it can be called that with rain drumming on the roof and Sanzo's breath whistling and rasping. Just as I start to think that it might be safe to doze off, he starts awake and mouths soundlessly 'have to get them' as he struggles out of bed. I am able to intercept him before he's gone more than a step or two, and the reassurance that 'they' have been taken care of seems to derail his panicky train of thought. We fall into a sort of rhythm; a few incoherent ramblings and coughing fits, several minutes of silence, and he tries to climb out the window. I have no idea how much time has passed; I guess it to be just past midnight when Sanzo settles into a deeper, less restless sleep. The incoherent outbursts trail off, and the coughing fit that follows doesn't cause him to stir. I watch him carefully, but he seems to be sleeping. After another quarter-hour with no movement from the bed, I remove my eyepiece and place it safely between the bread and cheese, then rest my head on my crossed arms. The rough fabric of my robe makes my back itch more, but I ignore it. It will ensure that I'm sleeping lightly, in case Sanzo makes another break for the window and its near-fatal drop while I'm not watching.

            Between the flickering light and the sound of the storm, I should not be able to sleep. My mind should be painting invisible assassins to shock me awake with, but they don't come. Instead, I drift off into a dream-memory that's pleasant for once: Kanan, in a field of flowers, singing as she gathers them. Even the most painful words of her song fail to hurt me, here, in this dream of paradise.

            _Just remember, you are not alone, so don't you fear. Even though you're miles away, I'm by your side. So open up your mind, and close your eyes. I'll be there for you, MURDERING YOUKAI!_

            The dream-image of Kanan suddenly turns on me at that scream, dropping the flowers and holding a sharp knife up to stab down at me. I bring my arm up and block, my left wrist impacting against Sanzo's right. Immediately, my arm twists around and I clamp hard fingers into the pressure points, and the knife clatters to the table, where it turns out to be a letter-opener shaped like a dagger.

            Murdering youkai.

            The guilt stabs at me where the letter opener failed, and the feeling of worthlessness bleeds out of me as it hasn't done in a while. Is that really how Sanzo sees me? I look up from the letter opener and search his face, but he's snarling at something just past me. Another hallucination, then. It doesn't matter. It's what I am, even if it's not how he thinks of me.

            I don't hold it against him that he mistook me for one of his hallucinations, or even that he attempted to stab me, but I can't let this continue. I can't take the chance that he'll hurt himself if I pass out for a few hours. I can feel my chi beating against my flesh again, and almost see where it laps up against Sanzo's own life-energy. Pressure points. My fingers find them easily enough, robbing Sanzo of the freedom to move his own limbs for a time. I lay him down in his bed, then replace my eyepiece before digging out the straight razor and cutting my still-damp sheet into thick strips. It's a good thing the bed frame is thick, solid wood. Tethering Sanzo's ankles to the bed frame is easy enough, but I want to give him enough play in the arms so that he can roll onto his side. After some improvisation, I tether his wrists to the top of the frame so that they will move back and forth a bit, making the tether long enough that he can lever himself up. It takes a bit longer, but I run a strip down behind the bed and back in a loop, keeping Sanzo from leaving the bed by virtue of the bed sheet holding his torso down. Again, I keep it loose enough that he can shift positions, but not put himself in danger. I sit down at the table for a minute to rest, and am perplexed to hear a bell tolling, as though it were time for breakfast. Has it been that long? I glance at the lamp; it's burning low. I guess it _has_ been that long. That means...

            "Saaaannnzzzoooooooo..."

            Right on time, Goku's wail resonates within the room. He tries to glare past me when I open the door, but I block his view of the bed with my body. I'm not sure what he'd do if he saw Sanzo tied down. He settles on scowling at me instead.

            "I suppose you'll want more tea." His tone is reluctant, resigned.

            "Thank you," I reply simply. I hadn't asked for tea last night, just a mug. It's comforting to know that Goku's worried in his own way.

            "You don't have to nanny him, you know." Maybe not; he sounds disgusted. "He'll get better on his own, even if you don't fuss over him."

            I smile gently. "I prefer fussing. It's more productive than just worrying."

            Goku snorts. "Suit yourself," he grumbles, and slouches away down the hall.

            One day down, three to go.

            While Goku is fetching hot tea and eating his breakfast, Sanzo has three more incoherent conversations with people not present and makes another attempt at the window. He thrashes against the tie of the bed sheet keeping him in the bed, but the strips of cloth hold and he is unable to hurl himself to the floor. It takes a few repetitions of 'they've been taken care of' and 'Master Sanzo is fine' before he calms down, but when he does, it is as though a switch has been thrown. He snaps into semi-coherency and his fever-bright eyes follow me as I refill both lamp and brazier. Again, Goku signals his return by kicking at the door, and Sanzo dives for his pillow in a paranoid movement that looks to be reflex more than anything.

            "It's just Goku," I say soothingly. Sanzo freezes, then seems to digest my words and relaxes, if rolling over and hunching away from me can be considered relaxing.

            Goku thrusts a mug of hot tea at me the instant the door is opened wide enough, and then glances away uneasily before holding out a bowl of thin porridge. "Just...make sure he eats, okay?" The sullen resentment seems to have cracked, and helpless concern is seeping into his words.

            I wink as I take the bowl; it seems to surprise him, but a bit of his normal spirit returns. "I promise you, I will do my best to make sure Sanzo eats enough."

            This is a promise easy to make - it is covered under the oaths I made to Kanan's spirit, and furthermore is something I've been acting on almost since my first day here. I'm just saying it aloud for the first time, and it is a testament to how comfortable I am in my dedication to my duty that my voice is strong and confident. There is a moment of clear understanding between us; this promise goes beyond the boundaries of Sanzo's illness and my stay at the temple, shooting off into the nebulous future like a bird trailing a silver cord, tying the three of us together. Come what may, Goku will rely on me to make sure Sanzo takes care of himself, and the gift of his trust awakens a strength that had been slumbering in me since Kanan's death. _I swore I'd take care of you, Kanan. Now I'll keep my promise the only way I can._

            Goku nods once, acknowledging both what was said and what was unsaid, then darts back down the hall with more of his usual cheer. I nudge the door shut again and turn back to the bed. Sanzo is still curled up in a ball of misery, but looks up when I say his name. It's obvious he doesn't want to eat, despite the fact that his protest is unintelligible behind the rasp and cough. Also, I seem to be someone shorter from the way Sanzo is glaring at me. Whoever he thinks I am, I seem to be someone he either can't or won't argue with, and between venomous glares directed equally at me and the bowl in his lap, he does eat.

            "You could at least give me something to drink." The statement is growled between mouthfuls, and the implication is alcoholic.

            "This tea was prepared specially for you." I allude to things that aren't there as I hand him the mug, but he drinks in grim satisfaction and doesn't seem to notice the lack of anything stronger than honey.

            There are other comments muttered darkly into his porridge, but I can't interpret any of them. His glares get weaker as the bowl empties, and then suddenly dissolve into petulant, childish pleading as the bowl is scraped clean.

            "I ate it all, Koumyou." Sanzo's words hold the implication of holding up his end of some bargain I am unaware of.

            I smile to cover how badly his words have unnerved me, and hand him the mug of sweetened tea again, trying to act as though I am fulfilling 'my' end of whatever the agreement was. Either honey-sweetened tea was the reward Sanzo was looking for or his confusion overwrites his perceptions of reality around him because he drinks greedily from the mug, holding it in both hands. The empty dishes go by the window; I don't want to argue with the shutters, even with Sanzo secured. When I turn back towards the bed, he's holding one half of a heated argument with someone who must - judging from where he's looking - be fused with the wall. Is this normal for pneumonia, I wonder? Or is it just another way Sanzo rejects the way things are typically done? I find myself idly scratching at my back, one arm snaked down the neck of my robe. My nails scrape across something hard and rough, and then a long strip of scab comes off in my fingers. A little astonished, I examine it. It's the length of my palm and as wide as a finger. Suddenly, the itching on my back makes sense, and I chuckle. Sanzo hurls a garbled retort at me, then rolls over and sulks.

            My back has healed from the abuse I inflicted on it; no wonder it itched. I deposit the scab in the porridge bowl, then bring both hands around to scratch the scabs off and free the new skin underneath. Huge flakes and strips come away, and again I feel as though I've come out the other side of a metamorphosis. This must be what the snake feels as he sheds his skin. What, then, am I shedding? I pause, considering a palm-sized scale of hardened infection and blood. _Monster_. A fragment of memory flashes, and is gone - Sanzo's look of apology, his breath on my back. With a slight shudder, I drop the scab into the bowl. _Never again_. I am shedding the remains of Gonou, the part that hurt Sanzo through self-mutilation. The part that acted selfishly, without regard for Sanzo's wants or needs. Almost frantically I rake my nails across my back, seeking to scrape off every bit of hardened blood and dead skin, but Sanzo's cough jerks me back into awareness of my surroundings. I am caught in mid-shed, strips of my psyche seeming to hang from my back and arms. It takes an effort to force Right Action and Right Intention back into place and calmly bring Sanzo the mug of diluted juice, and he looks at me strangely as he takes it. Puzzled and suspicious, he watches me as he drinks and hands the mug back, and then something between me and the door drags him into another one-sided rant. I retreat back into the corner and finish my unorthodox cleansing, shaking my robe to make sure there are no clinging bits and then carefully collecting all the flakes and strips of scab from the floor. Only when that's done am I able to really think coherently again.

            Sanzo is watching me. Or rather, Sanzo is following my movements and seems to want to say something, but when he meets my eyes, his gaze flinches away. I wonder who I look like to him, in his fevered state. There is a sense of bewilderment about him, as though my presence is something so completely out of the ordinary that there is no possible explanation for it. I drag the chair back over to the bed and sit, idly contemplating varied subjects as his eyes dart cautiously towards me, then away. After a few minutes, a shudder runs through him and he closes his eyes tightly. A muscle in his temple jumps as his jaw clenches, and he slips into what must be a nightmare-riddled doze. How long has it been since that night? How many days did it take my back to go from a quagmire of infection to new skin underneath dry scabs? It's a little hard to untangle the events, but I believe Sanzo left on the fifth day after he put the salve on my back. Two days out, two days back, and that makes today the ninth. Nine days. Somehow, in just over a week, my body healed the infection spread across a significant expanse of skin and completely repaired itself. And it wasn't until -

            A knock on the door interrupts my train of thought. I glance at Sanzo, but he's still curled on his side, whimpering at whatever nightmare is playing itself out behind his eyelids. A little cautiously, I open the door a crack and peek out. One of the younger monks is standing there with the air of an official messenger.

            "The presence of the Honored Genjo Sanzo is requested by-"

            "I'm sorry," I interrupt impersonally. The stream of arrogance is disrupted, and the monk's eyes bulge as though I'd just kicked him in the gut.

            "Wha-what?" He's scrambling to regain the upper hand, and failing.

            "My deepest apologies, Honored One, but the Honored Genjo Sanzo is unable to grant his presence to anyone just now." My tone is cool and detached, but dripping with false sympathy. The monk splutters some more.

            "But...why not?"

            ~ _Don't let them see.~_

            "Ah, he is currently otherwise occupied, and not well inclined towards being disturbed." Dance around the truth, play word games, and invoke Sanzo's considerable temper. That should be enough, and the monk _is_ looking uncertain now. If only I were able to simulate Sanzo's impatient bark, or the sound of his gun being fired.

            The monk's making one last try. "It's very important that he-"

            "You want to die?!?"

            There could not have been a better time for one of Sanzo's outbursts at an imagined person. The monk pales visibly and trembles for a moment before bolting down the hall, dignity be damned. I'm hard-pressed to not laugh as I close and lock the door, and the sight of Sanzo threatening the table doesn't help. I seat myself by his bed and watch him threaten helpless furniture until he breaks off, coughing and spitting. He takes the juice almost angrily, then rolls over away from me when he's done drinking. There is silence in the room, rain pounding on the roof and the noon bell tolling distantly over the drumming. I should eat lunch. Goku will likely be by soon, however. I unlock the door and go to the table, nibbling on slightly wilted vegetables while using the spreading knife to crudely cut a wedge of cheese. It's very awkward, and when the knock and wail come, I just leave the knife stuck in the wheel and answer the door.

            "Broth again?" He's trying to look sullen, but the resignation comes off as almost hopeful. At my nod, he blinks. "D'you want me to bring you anything?"

            "No, but thank you for the offer."

            He looks suspicious, like he's sniffing the air around me for clues. "You-"

            "-brought food, yes."

            His mischievous grin brings an answering smile to my face. "Whoah! When you fuss, you go all out!" Goku rocks back on his heels with a low whistle at my preparations. "And you actually got him to eat? While he's sick?"

            I nod, and he gives a hop backwards before saluting me cheekily and dashing down the hall. Watching him go, I spend a moment pitying any of the temple's residents who try to pick on him and then close the door again. The cheese is waiting, and after a minute I manhandle a chunk out of the wheel and chew thoughtfully, trying to remember what I'd been thinking about before the monk interrupted me.

            My back. My chi.

            I somehow healed from what, I admit, was probably a fairly serious infection. Furthermore, I completely re-grew the damaged skin on my back, and did it all in just over a week. Those scabs were beyond ready to come off; the skin beneath them isn't even tender. Which means that my back was probably healed three days ago, or about when I first became aware of my youkai chi. The undeniable fact is that from the time it started to mutate until three days ago, my chi - the chi fueled by the lives of a thousand murdered youkai - was doing its best to heal the damage I was suffering, both inflicted and self-inflicted. My barely-sufficient diet couldn't have been helping; in the absence of enough food, my chi must have been attempting to sustain me in addition to healing my wounds. The healing would only have accelerated once I was both eating regularly and no longer whipping myself. When I actually used my chi and drained the tiny reserves I had, I needed to eat because I _had_ no chi to sustain my body with. Chi must be used in order for it to be strengthened; one's reserves must be drained in order for them to increase. A grim smile stretches across my face, and I embrace the small pricklings that herald guilt sinking tiny claws into me. So. If I am to strengthen my chi and use it to atone for the murders that gave it to me, I will be at odds with my decision to eat only what I must to survive - I will need to eat in order to replenish my small reserves. On the other hand, if I eat only enough to keep going, I will suffer a constant drain on my chi as it makes up for the lack of sustenance. I will continue as I have been - eat only enough to keep going, but also enough to allow replenishing after I have drained my chi. This will undoubtedly put quite a bit of stress on my body as well as my chi as it struggles to sustain me. Good. I will still be punishing myself even as I struggle to atone in a away that is constructive rather than self-destructive.

            I put the rest of the cheese down; with Sanzo not in his right mind, I can not afford to expend any chi and risk passing out. Therefore, in order to expend chi in a safe manner, I will need to force it to sustain me, and the only way to do that is to not eat. I shrug off the guilt; a full reserve of chi will only distract me by making me hyperaware of any physical sensations. Sanzo almost hurled himself to his death while I was distracted by hyperawareness; I can not afford another such distraction.

            That thought chiding me, I check Sanzo's physical state. The fever is still there, and his breathing is still labored. He's been sweating profusely, but is still hydrated thanks to the juice I've been providing. I'll need to get him into a clean robe, at least, if not change the bedclothes entirely. That will have to wait until after Goku returns with broth; I don't want to risk Sanzo making a dash for the window while I'm trying to get him to eat. There is nothing else to do but wait for Goku. I seat myself by the bed, where Sanzo immediately sits up and glares at me before launching into a very slurred and unintelligible tirade. Whoever I am now, he is accusing me of something that was probably very unkind. Several times I have to duck as his gesturing threatens to jab a finger in my eye. I wish I could understand him; it sounds rather amusing in an objective sense. After a few minutes, he breaks into a coughing fit. His coughs are definitely more productive; his lungs should clear out in the next day or so. He drinks the weak juice without seeming to see me, but then settles into a glower and crosses his arms stubbornly. Those too-bright eyes follow my every movement, tracing my path to the door to answer Goku's muted kick.

            "I brought a mug of broth. Thought it'd be easier to get him to drink." Goku cuts straight to the point, making me wonder about his rambling monologues.

            "Thank you." I take the mug, and he turns to go. "Goku?" He turns back, a questioning look on his face. "How are you doing?"

            The boy kicks at the floor for a moment. "Alright. It's no fun when it's raining, but at least Sanzo's back, even if he is sick. And at least he's eating some." He scowls at a section of wall off to my right. "Well, see ya." He takes off running and I close the door, locking it.

            Sanzo is still glowering at me, his eyes the only part of his body moving as they follow me back to my seat by the bed.

            "Sanzo?"

            No response. It's not even that he's not recognizing it as his name; I may as well have not said anything.

            "Goku brought you some broth. Can you drink it?"

            Again, no response. I reach slowly for his hands, thinking that if I can get him holding the mug, maybe he'll drink instinctively like he does with the juice. At the first brush of my skin on his, however, he lashes out and knocks my hand away.

            "Sanzo?" This is unlike any of the other unusual behavior I've seen from him in the last day and a half. Again, I get no response, just those burning eyes locked onto me. "Ah, I'll just leave it here on the chair for you."

            Those eyes follow my every movement as I stand up, place the mug on the seat of the chair, well within Sanzo's reach, and retreat to the corner by the window. Well, he's not moving and the door is locked.  I don't dare try to sleep, but I can at least meditate and let my mind rest a bit. I make sure the shutters are wedged firmly shut, then kneel where I can see the bed and window clearly and focus on my chi. If I keep my eyes open, any motion Sanzo makes is sure to grab my attention, and kneeling will ensure that if I fall asleep, the loss of balance will wake me. I lock my eyes on Sanzo's and let my awareness drift inwards, seeing the blue-white energy pulsing softly under my skin. My awareness expands to fill the room, until I can almost feel the rain pounding on the roof and the air scraping against the lining of Sanzo's lungs. His mouth is pressed into a hard line and his fingers clench against his arms in random, involuntary spasms. My chi beats within me, blue-white clouds keeping the rhythm of my heart. There is another beat, an answering counterpoint that flashes an eye-searing blue from somewhere near Sanzo. Sparks sizzle around him, rising and falling in a scintillating fountain with each harsh breath, crawling over the surface of his skin like a swarm of chi-bugs and drifting along the line of his glare to impact against me in silent explosions that drive me further and further away from conscious thought.


	9. Burning At Both Ends

            There is movement in front of me, and it takes a minute before I am really aware of my surroundings again. Stiffly, I stand up and check the source of movement - Sanzo is curled up as much as is possible within the confines of his restraints, one hand tucked up under his chin like a child clutching a sore throat. A quick check of the lamp tells me that it has been maybe an hour since I knelt in the corner to meditate. It's inaccurate, but checking the level of oil in the lamp is the only measurement of time I really have right now. The mug of broth has long since gotten cold; I set it with the other used dishes and argue the storm shutters open. A whimper and rustle behind me; Sanzo is flinching away from the noise of the storm. I fill the pitcher from the runoff and wrestle the shutters closed again, and he relaxes somewhat as the noise is muffled. Now, where did I put that sponge...?

            Moments later, I have a small bowl of water and a damp sponge ready to do a basic sponge bath. Sanzo is sweating heavily; his fever will likely break tonight. He doesn't respond as I pull the blankets back, but I realize the flaw in my logic. I tied the strips of sheet while they were damp; Sanzo pulled them tight in his struggles. The sheet strips have dried now, but the knots will be impossible to undo. I'll have to cut them, there's no other option.

            I'm becoming far too familiar with the location of Sanzo's razor. It doesn't take long to cut Sanzo free, and he's still not reacting to my presence. This may be easier that I'd feared. He neither fights nor is dead weight, but allows himself to be moved about and stays where I move him. He does not flinch away from the cold water, but does give me an imploring look as if to plead with me to stop. I smile apologetically, and try to wash the sweat from his skin as quickly as possible. A thought flashes through my mind as I hold him steady by one shoulder; just the barest image, like a hazy memory. _A rice paddy, fed through a crude aqueduct, barely more than a channel cut between river and field._ Granted, I've done a lot of traveling, but I've never seen this particular area of the country before. My heartbeat quickens, and I slowly set the sponge into the bowl. Deliberately, I lay both hands flat on Sanzo’s shoulder blades and concentrate my chi into my hands, willing it to merge with Sanzo's. There is a confused impression of something caught in my lungs, and then the image of the riverbank returns. It is still fuzzy, more like something sensed than witnessed, and there is no sense of the events happening to 'me'. They are simply unfolding, and I am a bodiless observer.

            _A river, swollen with rain and muddy, branches and other debris floating and whirling by, tangling with other bits or on the banks. A channel cut into the bank, crude floodgate lodged open. The field is flooding with muddy water, the farmer knee-deep as he dislodges the obstruction._

The image skips slightly, as though the first bit were merely to set the stage.

            _The farmer, holding up a bundle of muddy cloth and soaked, broken reeds; the remains of a wicker basket._

_"It's a child!"_

_The woman is overweight; her voice is shrill and she is unimpressed. "It's scrawny and unhealthy-looking. Let's give it to the temple as part of our tithe; they can deal with it."_

_"But the field-" The farmer is obviously easily dominated by his wife; his tone is sniveling._

_"Go bring it to the temple! I'll not have it crying at me while you tend the field!" She points imperiously, and the man's shoulders droop._

            The image fades, and I find myself breathing heavily. I'd heard the bare bones of how Sanzo was taken from the river, but the librarian didn't give any details. Is this a true vision? Is this how Sanzo was rescued? My hand is trembling slightly as I reach for the sponge; I make a mental note to eat once Sanzo has been washed and dressed. I doubt I'll ever find out if what I saw was true or not. If it was, the only witnesses were the farmer, his wife, and Sanzo. The mere notion of asking him about this makes me flinch, and I guiltily resume washing him. My chi must be too strong again. Clouds of blue-white seem to overlay my hands, and there are mucus-green streaks running underneath Sanzo's skin. This can't be normal. My motions become sharp and nervous; I am suddenly afraid to make skin contact. Sanzo is shivering at the cold sponge against his skin; suddenly, he doubles up in a coughing fit and I catch him before he falls over.

            _A cold room; an antechamber somewhere. Cold and wet, propped up in an uncomfortable chair. Cloth around me - muddy, but faded pink under the mud. A woman's shawl, faded and worn. The knowledge that someone had been here and left 'just for a moment'. Further knowledge that hours have passed. Silence; I make no sound, I am too miserable to do more than just sit.  
           Someone approaches. A kind smile, a gentle voice. _

_"Let's get you into something dry, hmm?"_

The coughing has subsided. I pull my hands back as though scalded, breathing rapidly and trembling slightly. This is wrong. I have no right to see this. There is no doubt now that I am somehow witnessing Sanzo's memories, and despite wanting to understand him so that I can better atone for failing Kanan, I have no wish to intrude upon the sanctity of Sanzo's mind. Luckily, I can get away with the washing I've done and just putting him into a clean robe. I fetch one from the pile I'd stashed in a corner, and he reacts finally, reaching for it and wrapping it shakily around himself. He doesn't seem to be inclined to move, so I leave him sitting on the chair and strip the sweaty sheets from the bed before replacing them with clean ones. When I'm done, he's still sitting there staring off into space.

            "Sanzo?"

            He looks up, but there is no recognition in his eyes. "Did Master Sanzo send you?"

            His voice is once again higher than normal, despite the thick rasp. Considering the lingering image of a kind smile, I suppress a flinch and allow the guilt to gnaw on me.

            "Ah, Master Sanzo said you should lie down for a bit."

            The lie tastes like ash as it leaves my mouth, and watching Sanzo climb obediently into bed only makes me feel worse. I have no right to be doing this, even in the name of Sanzo's health. I have no right to use the name of a man Sanzo respected to manipulate him in his confusion. And yet...what other option do I have? Close the door, leave him to fend for himself? Let him go without eating, let him climb out the window? My wants and needs are forfeit; the needs of Genjo Sanzo outweigh anything I may want. I am buying his health with my pain and guilt, and that is more than a fair price considering all I've put him through. He's looking at me with innocent eyes; whoever he sees me as, it is someone he trusts and despite wincing in pain, seems willing enough to snuggle down under the blankets and try to sleep. I seat myself by the bed, and he watches me contentedly for several minutes before his eyelids droop and he dozes off.

            I hope Sanzo doesn't remember any of this when he comes out of it.

            The minutes tick by as I sit there, watching Sanzo sleep and listening to the sounds of his harsh breathing weave in and out of the sound of the rain. My senses are once again more sensitive than they should be, and my hands are steady when I hold them up and examine them. It must have been nerves making them shake earlier. I really do need to find a way to occupy my chi - not just now, but in the future, as well. Some little exercise that will drain it enough to strengthen it without being so extreme that I lose consciousness. The half-seen overlay of my chi keeps distracting me, and no answers come. Sanzo is still sleeping; I get up and pace the room nervously, trying to calm my mind by occupying it with physical motion. After a few minutes of pacing back and forth, I realize that walking is making it somehow worse. Instead of the motions quieting the hyperawareness, I am becoming aware of the act of moving. This would be acceptable if it stopped there, but it doesn't. I am aware of every nuance of motion, every detail that walking involves. I can feel my muscles bunch and contract, feel my tendons strain, feel the smooth rub as my joints move. Thoughts still jumping, I seat myself by the bed again before I become aware of the path my blood is tracing through my body. Now the blue-white ghosts under my skin are stirring from my exertions. Not only am I back where I started, but it's gotten worse. Every sound is magnified and I can actually hear Goku's footsteps in the hall before he knocks rapidly on the door. I've opened it before his fist impacts a fourth time, and he gapes at me a bit in surprise.

            "Wow, that was fast. Umm, what d'you want me to bring you?" He cranes his neck slightly, trying to see behind me. Sanzo is still untied, so I don't try to block him, but the angle of the door prevents him from seeing the bed anyway.

            I glance over that way; Sanzo is still sleeping. "Just some tea, please. Honeyed, if you can manage it." With the bit Sanzo was pulling earlier, I don't dare try my luck with the broth again.

            Goku nods and dashes off and I close the door, leaning against it a moment to catch my thoughts. This chi is going to drive me crazy before the night is over if I don't find some way to expend it at least a little. Sanzo shifts suddenly, and I realize I've been leaning against the door for several minutes, just spacing out.

            Enough of this.

            I don't quite stomp, but I stride firmly towards the table and blow out the lamp with an impatient breath. The room dims, but the brazier wards off the darkness. The glass is too hot to touch; I have no desire to burn myself. Granted, my chi would leap at the chance to repair damaged tissues, but my peace of mind is not a good enough reason to violate one of the few prohibitions Sanzo has placed on my actions. Instead, I look upon this as a challenge. How do I light the lamp when there is glass between my hands and the wick?

            Hands cupped awkwardly away from the hot glass, I concentrate on my chi. Not hard to do; it's practically seething beneath my skin. I force a portion of it into my palms, and concentrate on forming the little lightning bolts. They come easily enough, jumping from palm to glass but not penetrating or connecting. I am left with tiny strands of blue-white energy roving the surface of the glass restlessly, searching for an entry point. With how jumpy my train of thought is right now, I quickly become frustrated and will the strands of chi to bypass the glass and strike the wick. The number of strands increased until the inside of the lamp seems to glow from the sheer amount of chi beating against the glass. Recklessly, I focus more of my chi against the glass, about three breaths from just hurling it against the storm shutters in frustration. By some trick of reflection, the glow seems to condense around the wick, mocking me.

            That's _it!_ If that godforsaken lamp doesn't light, I'm going to-

            A soft pop; warm light spreads out from the lit wick.

            I am left standing with my hands splayed around the glass, blinking stupidly at the flame dancing cheerfully just out of my reach. A weak chuckle escapes me, and another, and then I am sitting on the floor with my head in my hands, laughing at how neatly I've just made a fool of myself. Thankfully, as the knock on the door proves, this little exercise was enough to take the excess chi out of my system. Goku looks at me strangely as he hands me the mug of tea, and I laugh again as I shake my head ruefully.

            "Don't mind me, I just got myself worked up over nothing." My sheepish tone doesn’t seem to convince him of anything, save perhaps that I've lost my mind.

            "Well, if you're sure everything's okay..."

            "It is," I assure him. "I just need to not jump to conclusions." He gives me a knowing look and a nod, and runs off.

            I am left with the task of waking Sanzo and trying to get him to drink the tea Goku brought. That by itself will be easy, but after the lunch fiasco, the trick will be seeing if whatever mental state Sanzo wakes up in is one that will actually drink. Well, he's still curled up like a small child; perhaps if I just go with that, he'll remain in that mindset.

            Being careful to keep the cloth of his robe between my skin and his, I gently shake his shoulder. He blinks up at me, not quite awake and still seeing me as someone that can be trusted.

            "I brought you some tea. Can you drink it?" My voice is warm and smooth; comforting and trustworthy. I loathe myself for the lie I am acting out.

            Sanzo nods weakly and struggles into a sitting position. I hand him the mug and again, he takes it in both hands and drinks like a child. When it is empty, he hands it back without a word and curls up under the blankets again.

            Well, that was anti-climactic. I put the mug with the others and notice I've got quite a collection started. Maybe tomorrow morning I'll have Goku bring some of them back to the kitchen, or I'll just do it myself once Sanzo has recovered. I open one of the shutters partway to dump out he cold broth, and toss the remaining vegetables out with it. They haven’t fared well in the warm room, and are progressing past 'wilted' and into 'compost'. The bowl of scabs is dumped and washed thoroughly; all the dishes get a rinsing in the runoff from the roof, and then are stacked neatly in the corner before I wedge the shutters closed again. Sanzo hasn't flinched; with any luck, he's settled in for the night. Out of a lack of anything else to do, I nibble on bread and chickpea paste. I still don't dare sleep, but the night looms depressingly empty before me. It's not that long after dinner; the librarian will still be up. I could get a book from the library...except that would mean leaving Sanzo unattended, and I'm not willing to risk that.

            Obsessively, I straighten the few things that are out of order and then once again find myself with nothing to do. Coughing from the bed; I refill the mug with juice and water. Sanzo is still drinking with both hands. I should re-tie him, but he hasn't made any motion towards the window, and I don't think I could bring myself to tie him down when he's looking at me with such trust. There is also a strong desire to avoid anything that might bring me into direct contact; I do not wish to overhear any more of his memories. Several minutes of restless fidgeting later, and I discover myself gazing contemplatively at my hands. The blue-white overlay is gone; perhaps without the distraction of my chi, I could meditate. I cross to just by the window in case Sanzo tries to get 'them' and settle into the lotus position, eyes unfocusing as I center my attention inwards.

            Rain; breathing. Flickering light. My breaths are slow and even; my heartbeat is calm. The world fades out, to be replaced by a state of non-being. I am not aware of what is going on around me, but at the same time, I am. Sanzo shifts a few times; wind hurls rain against the shutters. I am able to sit and let the moments pass through me until I become aware of a pair of eyes on me.

            Someone is watching me.

            The state of simply being is shattered as those accusing eyes bore into me, silently demanding. Someone is watching me, and is doing so in an unfriendly fashion. Awareness of the room filters back to me. There is a figure standing in the corner by the door. Well, not standing. The figure is sitting, propped against the wall, arms dangling limply and legs splayed as though they'd given out. It must be a hallucination. Well, the respite was nice, but I knew it wouldn't last. I rub my eyes carefully, then untangle my legs and get to my feet. At least Sanzo's corpse isn't bloody or accusing me of failing him. A glance at the lamp; it's been a few hours. A glance at the bed, and my heart threatens to stop.

            Sanzo isn't there.

            Pulse pounding in my ears, I pin the hallucination with a panicky look and rake my gaze over the still form. Skin pale. No eye movement. No obvious cuts, bruises, or wounds of any kind. No bloating or evidence of decomposition. There - a shallow breath! The 'hallucination' of Sanzo actually _is_ Sanzo. My pulse drops back down to a more normal range and I allow myself the luxury of several deep breaths before turning my attention back to the situation at hand. Sanzo is looking at me, and unhappily, but he is looking _at_ me as opposed to at something imagined.

            "Sanzo?" I call his name softly, to see if he'll recognize it as his. There is a flicker of something behind his eyes, but it vanishes and that too-trusting look comes back. "Master Sanzo says you should lie down for a bit." I cut off whatever he'd opened his mouth to say, and he gives a nod instead.

            There is a minute where Sanzo seems to be trying to climb to his feet, but his arms and legs do not respond properly. Still wary of physical contact, I slip one arm over my shoulder and help him get to the bed. At first, he curls up like a child and seems to drop off, but not five minutes later he suddenly screams. Or at least, it would be a scream if his hoarse voice didn't reduce it to an unnerving hiss. He thrashes wildly, tangled in the blankets, still trying to scream at the top of his lungs. I have to physically hold him down so that he doesn't hurt himself, and one flailing hand catches me solidly in the temple. There is a confused tangle of limbs before I am able to catch his wrists and hold him still, and then his panic is my panic, and what I am seeing is not the room around me.

            _A house looms, partially burned. Smoke and sparks obscure the sky, and there are screams and other sounds of havoc. There is a woman, dirt or ash smeared on her face, right arm bound against her chest, blood splattered on her clothes and seeping from small wounds. She glances fearfully behind her; knowledge that there should be a man, but he was in the house. The woman moves, bends down, and then the whole scene starts retreating as though wherever my spirit is centered, I am the one moving. She reaches out with her good hand as I am whisked away, a look of desperation in her eyes as she calls out a name in a voice hoarse from smoke and coughing._

_"Lanair!"_

            I jerk; Sanzo's wrists almost come out of my grasp. He is still struggling, but not against me. He is flailing randomly, caught in the grip of whatever childhood torment I've just glimpsed. It's obvious that calling his name won't bring him out of it, and I get the feeling that calling him by any other name would not have the desired calming effect. So. There is nothing I can do to calm Sanzo, and I will not violate his mental privacy through inadvertent eavesdropping by means of physical contact.

            The straps are much shorter since I cut the knots off; Sanzo will not have free movement the way he did before. It takes several minutes with him thrashing about, but I do manage to get his wrists bound to the headboard. The strips of cloth cut slightly into his wrists as he tries to struggle free, but there is nothing I can do about that. A stray kick catches me on the thigh, and I apply myself to the task of securing his legs. Holding both legs at the same time proves impossible; I am sure to have bruises on my face in the morning. Instead, I settle for trying each leg to a corner of the bed. The straps cut into Sanzo's ankles, but hold his legs straight. He is likely to have bruises as well, but at least he won't be risking greater injury.

            Once the knots have been tied and Sanzo is no longer running the risk of hurling himself out of the bed, I retreat across the room. The residual panic is making me shake slightly, and almost without knowing it, I am wringing my hands as though to remove something from them. Somehow, I doubt I would be able to sit still for traditional meditation to calm myself down with. Very well - I will just use the need for physical motion to my own ends. I begin pacing the width of Sanzo's room nervously. To the window, to the door. To the window, to the door. After a few minutes, I am able to slow my pace down to a quick walk; several minutes of that, and my path is taken at a more leisurely stroll. Sanzo has stopped struggling, and lies panting on the bed. Every few breaths there's a weak cough, but nothing like the wracking storms he'd endured earlier. I make a quick detour to the bed and cover him with the blanket, then resume my stately pacing. With my chi down to a normal level, I can lose myself in awareness of movement without the hypersensitivity and let time slip by me without either involving me or passing me by entirely. My motions have slowed considerably; my awareness caresses each change in the course of a single step. Each tendon twitch, each muscle tightening as my balance shifts, every nuance of the act absorbs me and I am only vaguely aware of Sanzo off to the side. My world becomes shift and balance, muscle and bone. After an eternity of subtle shifting, I become aware that my heartbeat is resounding like the tolling of some distant bell. That sound and the awareness of my body, are the only things that exist until a sharp sound shatters my reality.

            The floor impacting against my side jolts me back into the world again. Goku is knocking on the door. I pick myself up and move slowly, still shaking off the remnants of my trance.

            "Hellllloooooooooooooooooooooooo! Sanzo? Hey, are you in there? Hey- oh, hey. You okay? You look sorta out of it." Goku's annoyance tactic is cut short as I manage to fumble the door open.

            "Ah, I'm fine." Actually, I'm still trying to reconcile 'breakfast time' with 'right now', but that's beside the point.

            Goku nods knowingly. "Rough night, huh? Looks like Sanzo gave you hell." He snickers. "I guess it's a good thing he locks himself in, if he pulls crap like _that_." He gestures at my face, and I remember the ordeal of tying Sanzo's legs down. I guess I _do_ have bruises. "Hey...are you sure you're okay?"

            "Yes," I assure him. "I'm just a little tired."

            "Alright. Porridge and tea again?"

            I nod my thanks, and he takes off. I close the door and start fumbling with the ties around Sanzo's wrists; I'll need to get him sitting up to eat.

            Two days down, two to go. I'm going to go insane.

            Sanzo is mostly incoherent as I manage to get his wrists untied; he keeps mumbling something that sounds disbelieving. He won't sit up, or at least _stay_ sitting, so I bundle the blankets and use them to prop him up. He seems to come out of it a bit, giving me a look partly confusion and partly disbelief. I don't care to invoke the child-mindset again to get him to eat.

            "Goku is coming back with your breakfast," I say quietly, hoping that Sanzo isn't seeing some other face where mine should be.

            Sanzo's eyes narrow and he sweeps an accusing look across the room before examining me intently. His lips are pressed together in that hard line again, so either he is awake and coherent, or wandering deeper in some delusion than I have any hope of dragging him back from. He alternates between watching me like a hawk and examining his hands as though not quite sure how they came to be there. Goku's kick makes the door rattle in its frame, and as I move to open it, I can see Sanzo make a painful-looking attempt to reach under his pillow. Even aside from the wool blankets bunched up on top of it, his legs are still tied to opposite sides of the footboard and while he can sit up, he can not turn over.

            "Here y'go. I got some honey in the tea. Don't let him beat up on you, ok? Just duck for a while until he calms down." Goku hands over bowl and mug and gives me a thumbs-up before dashing down the hallway.

            On the one hand, I have no desire to make anyone think that Sanzo struck me in anger; these bruises are the result of an accident, nothing more. But on the other hand, I would not relish having to explain exactly what it was I doing to get bruises on my face. Goku seems to have interpreted my uncomfortable expression as being unwilling to stand up for myself, and I'm not sure whether that's a good thing or a bad thing. I nudge the door closed with my hip and turn to Sanzo with an air of determination. Sanzo, for his part, is giving me a challenging glare. His lips are still pressed together, and his arms are crossed. I hold out the bowl of porridge, but he does not reach for it.

            "You need to eat, Sanzo." I make it a statement of fact, trying to keep my voice from answering his challenge. Sanzo doesn't move. He seems to be willing me to not be there, but I slide a determined smile onto my face and deflect his glare. "You are still sick, and your body needs fuel if you are to recover." I'm using a calm, reasonable tone now, trying to make him see the logic behind my words. Sanzo's lips only tighten further, and his arms tense where they're crossed over his chest. He's going to fight me over this.

            I promised Goku I'd do my best to make him eat. I promised Kanan I'd take care of her, and I broke that promise. My own oaths now hold Sanzo as my sole responsibility, and I can't make sure he's okay if I give in and give up every time he glares at me. He needs to eat, whether he likes it or not, and he doesn't have to like me. He just needs to live.

            My gaze gets a hard edge to it for a bare instant before I turn away abruptly and stalk across the room. The brazier has burned almost out, as has the lamp. I'll have to take care of them later. I set the mug by the brazier and grab the chair, dragging it back to the bed. Sanzo is still glaring at me, but with moments of puzzlement weakening the force of his challenge. He glances from my face down to the bowl as I sit down, as if to say 'what are you going to do with that?'. I give him my blandest smile.

            "You may not recognize me, Sanzo. You may not understand what I'm saying, or why I'm here, but I'm not moving until you've eaten." My tone is smooth and even, and I turn that benign smile on him as I reach for his arm. He is quickly losing the battle of wills as he becomes more bewildered, and blinks down in confusion at the bowl of porridge I place in his hand. "You are going to eat that," I tell him firmly, "because I know you need food and I'm not going to let you starve yourself." Sanzo's eyes flick up to my face, then flinch away and with a resigned slump to his shoulders he begins eating. A bit of victory colors my smile, and I close my eyes in relief.

            A bang jolts me back awake, and I realize that I somehow fell off the chair. Sanzo is asleep, blankets pulled up to his chin, empty bowl and spoon on the floor next to me. I shake my head to clear it, picking up the bowl and spoon and bringing them back to the table. The lamp is out and the brazier is almost out. I hastily refill the lamp and light it with a panicky burst of chi, then turn immediately to the brazier and carefully add more charcoal until it's burning cheerfully again. The tea Goku brought is lukewarm but I drink it anyway, licking my lips at the honeyed dregs in the bottom. The rain seems to have stopped for now, but I have no doubts that it will start again before nightfall. What time is it now? I wrestle the shutters open enough to check for the position of the sun - around noon - and then close them again. Time to take stock of things. The bowl is empty; Sanzo has eaten. He must have pulled the blankets out from behind him and gone to sleep. His breathing sounds much clearer, and his fever seems to have broken. He should be fully recovered by nightfall tomorrow. The room is clean, aside from the new dishes. The lamp and brazier have been freshly filled and will not need tending for several hours. My chi isn't distracting me, and I should eat. I manhandle another chunk out of the small cheese and spread the last of the chickpea paste on a chunk of moderately stale bread. Sanzo is clean, the sheets are clean, the room is clean. I should bathe myself as best I can while he sleeps. It takes a minute to locate the bowl and sponge I'd used to bathe Sanzo. When I've finished my makeshift lunch, I give myself a quick sponge-bath and wrap a fresh robe about myself. The draft from the window on my damp skin makes me shiver, but I dry quickly enough.

            A knock on the door distracts me from the irritation of my hair dripping down my neck, and I open the door cautiously.

            "You didn't answer, so I just brought some more tea. Everything okay?" Goku is giving me a slightly worried look.

            "Everything's fine," I assure him. "I just dozed off for a minute."

            The worried look gets more piercing as Goku searches my face. "You make sure you don't get sick taking care of him, okay? I don't want to have to take care of both of you."

            "I'll be fine, I just need to rest a bit."

            "If you say so..."

            Goku doesn't look or sound convinced, but after another long look he nods and walks down the hall. I right the chair I'd fallen out of and sit by the bed again, just watching Sanzo sleep. I don't really want wake him for something as trivial as tea, not when he's resting so peacefully.

            "Master Sanzo!"

            Then again, I'm more than willing to calm him down from a panic attack, and _then_ give him the tea.

            It's depressingly easy to soothe Sanzo-the-child and get him settled after a hot mug of tea, and then I'm sitting and watching him sleep again. Every so often he bursts into slurred conversation - sometimes directed at me, sometimes as things unseen - and he only makes one attempt to go get 'them'. The time slips by - when Sanzo is quiet, I concentrate on being mindful, and only motion really brings me back out of my trance; the incoherent diatribes are just another sound to be recognized and put aside. The ringing of the dinner bell, too, is heard and set aside, and it is not until Sanzo flinches away from the door that I really hear Goku's knock and stand up.

            "Hey, are you sure you're okay? You look really worn out." Goku's voice is starting to get a 'nagging' edge to it.

            I rub my eyes, reveling in how good it feels to let them close. "I just need to rest for a bit. It should be just another day until Sanzo recovers." The door frame is smooth and cool against my temple. One more day. I can make it.

            "...broth, then?"

            I nod, eyes still closed, and listen to the sound of Goku scuffing the floor as he walks away. There is silence, cool and damp from the storm. It is like the ocean, or the sky, against the nervous, restless stirring of the chi inside me. The blue-white clouds have condensed into streams, and I can see them reaching to all parts of my body. After a minute, I realize that it is mimicking the flow of my blood; the color was throwing me off. So this is what it looks like when my body is being sustained by my chi. I turn my awareness outside of my body, and can vaguely sense something heavy behind me. That must be Sanzo. As I'm contemplating that, however, something painfully bright comes down the hall like the sun itself. I force my eyes open in time to see Goku giving me a funny look. That was Goku's chi? For the first time, I notice the thick gold band under the boy's hair. Youkai. Well, that explains his strength and speed.

            "Thank you," I say in a distracted tone as I take the mug.

            Goku says nothing, but I've somehow earned myself the 'I know what you're doing, and I don't like it' look he was giving Sanzo before he left. Goku glares at me an extra few seconds, then turns on his heel and marches angrily away. I wonder what that was about. Sanzo is sitting up and having a laugh at someone else's expense as I close the door, smirking and making incoherent jibes at the wall. I offer him the mug, but he glares at it distrustfully, hands pressed unnaturally together as though his wrists were bound. If I were more alert, I'd be amused by the display, but I can feel my attention drifting and I want to make sure Sanzo's needs are taken care of. The look of utter surprise as I firmly pull his wrists apart is amusing regardless, and he accepts the mug of broth without argument.

            "Drink it."

            My words give him no other option and he watches me as he drinks, eyebrows still up in startlement. I take the empty mug and set it on the table, feeling his confused gaze on my back. After a few seconds there is a rustling, and then silence. I bathe in the silence, leaning with both hands on the table for stability. I can't keep this up for much longer, but I can't afford to sleep. My knees threaten to buckle; I can't exactly spend the night walking back and forth again, either. I'll just sit down for a few minutes. Sanzo's been quiet most of the day; if I happen to doze off, I'm sure I'll wake up. Just to be on the safe side, I find a corner where I can prop myself up between the wall and some furniture and still be facing the bed. If I do pass out, there's a solid wooden object on my left side and the pressure against my inhibitors will get painful before too long. The pain should wake me at that point. I sit down, hugging my knees to my chest. I just need to sit for a little bit, that's all. Just an hour or two.  
  
            *********************************************************

            The morning bell drags me out of my fog, hammering relentlessly into my ears with a blinding, throbbing pain. My head feels like it's tried to fuse with the wood it's been pressed against, and every joint aches as I stiffly try to work blood back into my extremities. For several minutes, the pain is enough to keep rational thought at bay, and it is not until I go to fill the cold brazier that I remember why I was sitting in the corner and what I've been doing over the last few days. Sanzo...I have to check on Sanzo. Goku will be coming soon. I stumble over to the bed, but it takes my foggy brain several seconds before I realize why it looks wrong.

            Sanzo is gone.


	10. Fractured Expectations

            Sanzo is gone. Sanzo is _gone_. That single thought circles my brain while the shock wears off, and then the panic settles in. Sanzo is gone. My breath comes in little whimpering gasps, and I can feel my chi roil under my skin. I fell asleep and somehow didn't wake up - my ear doesn't hurt nearly as much as I thought it would, I was leaning on my temple. The guilt rises, threatening to consume me, but I push it away. I need to find Sanzo. The storm shutters open easily at my reckless jerk, letting in a gust of wind and a faceful of rain. I lean out the window, searching the ground below for any sign of impact, but there is nothing. As I shove the shutters closed again, it occurs to me that Sanzo would not have been able to close them if he'd jumped out the window. I would feel more foolish if I weren't in the middle of mindless panic over the disappearance of the one man I absolutely can not fail.

            Stop. Think. Mindless panic is not productive and will not bring Sanzo back. I close my eyes and take several deep breaths, hands clenched hard enough for my nails to leave indents in my palms. Sanzo is gone. Right Mindfulness. Do not assume.  Find the truth. Think. He did not go out the window. He must have gone out the door. Sanzo was tethered.

            I left Sanzo tethered to the bed frame. Regardless of where he went or how he got there, that is the last place I saw him and it is the first place I need to check. Another deep breath, and I open my eyes. The bed is neatly made. If Sanzo were kidnapped, I doubt the intruder would stop to make the bed. Therefore, it is more likely that Sanzo left under his own power. My train of thought runs into a wall and falls over - I had Sanzo tied hand and foot, how could he get out of that? Stop and think. I tied his wrists - shy away from the overheard memory - and then untied them so that he could eat. But I tied them again afterwards, didn't I? Shaking the fuzz from my head, I run back over the events of the previous day. I untied Sanzo's wrists so he could eat, and then fell asleep in the chair. When I woke up, he was asleep with the blanket pulled up. Furthermore, I had to pull his hands apart to hand him the mug of broth, and I did not re-tie the restraints. And then I passed out.

            The blankets come up at my tug. The strips of sheet are there, neatly untied. Sanzo left under his own power. That somehow fills me with more dread than the thought that he'd been kidnapped. He left under his own power. He left of his own volition. He left because I somehow failed him.

            No.

            I take that last thought and crush it underfoot. Right Mindfulness. I will not make assumptions based on insufficient information. There is no proof that something I did caused Sanzo to leave, nor that his leaving is, in fact, something to panic about. There are a hundred logical reasons for Sanzo to have left under good or neutral circumstances, and I will not make any assumption about what happened until I find out what _did_ happen. Ruthlessly, I take the panic and the guilt and push them away, channeling them into the calm facade I've been cultivating. I can have my nervous breakdown later if need be, but if Sanzo is somehow in trouble, I won't do him any good just standing here freaking out. There is a quiet knock on the door, and then it opens and Goku walks in.

            "You slept through breakfast," he says, perching cheerfully on the bed.

            Breakfast? Then that means...

            "So...d'you wanna go grab some lunch? You've been cooped up in here the last few days - have you even left at all? I don't know how you do it, it'd drive me nuts being in the same room for three days, not to mention being stuck with Sanzo when he's sick and cranky. Hey, those bruises are almost gone! You sure are a fast healer! I guess it's 'cause you're a youkai now, huh? Hey, what'd Sanzo hit you for, anyway? I asked him, but he just told me to shut up and -"

            "Excuse me," I interrupt the flow of chatter, and Goku breaks off in surprise. "When did you see Sanzo?" My voice is calm and smooth; my masks are firmly in place.

            "Oh...just this morning, when I came to see if you wanted breakfast."

            "Did he say he was going out?" I am pleased that I sound only mildly interested, rather than doing the verbal equivalent of grabbing Goku by the shirt and demanding he tell me Sanzo's whereabouts.

            Goku blinks. "Yeah, he did. Said he'd be out for a while. Why?"

            Need an excuse. Think. Think. "Ah, I'm afraid he'll catch cold again if he gets caught in the rain. I'd like to bring him a rain cape."

            "Oh, okay." Goku jumps up and rummages in a chest. "He never remembers to take this. Here-" he thrusts a bundle of waterproofed wool at me. "-I'll show you where he usually goes. That's probably where he is now. C'mon!" He grabs my sleeve and tugs me towards the door. "We can grab something to eat in town!"

            Clutching the rain cape awkwardly, I allow myself to be dragged out, just barely managing to close the door behind me before Goku herds me down the hall. The temple is mostly empty while everyone is at lunch; the only people we see are the guards on the way out, and they only have time for a quick shout of surprise before we get too far down the stairs and vanish into the throng. The air is warm despite the rain; it will rain until the sun goes down and the air cools, but it seems like the entire population of Chang An is out trying to get their errands done despite the downpour. Goku weaves in and out of the crowd easily and I follow as best I can, rain quickly soaking me and running from my hair into my eyes. I lose sight of him several times, but he appears again within a few seconds, tugging on my sleeve to guide me in the right direction. Once, he reappears with a pastry, winking as he hands it to me with a comment that it's better than the food the temple serves. I slip it into a fold of my robe for later and weave through the crowd with him until we get to narrower streets and shabbier buildings. A few landmarks seem familiar through the rain, but it is not until Goku stops outside a seedy-looking tavern that I remember when I would have been here before.

            "Stay here a sec, okay? I'm gonna make sure he's here."

            Goku slips inside, leaving me in the street with the sudden knowledge that this is the tavern Sanzo had gone to while the youkai healer was tending to my wounds. The youkai healer...he'd said something, something that I hadn't grasped the meaning of.

            ~ _Contact with any other living person brings the possibilities for healing, but at the cost of learning things you may not have wished to know.~_

            If I weren't still so wound up, I'd laugh. The mental eavesdropping must be a common side-effect of chi-healing. It's a relief to know that I'm not the only one that's happened to. Any further revelations are cut off as Goku suddenly slips up beside me.

            "He's in there, table in the back. D'you want me to wait for you?"

            "No, thank you." I shake my head. "Sanzo's still recovering; he needs to rest a bit more. I'll just deliver the cape and come back with him. We shouldn't be long."

            Goku raises his eyebrows skeptically. "If you say so. See ya!"

            Within seconds, he's vanished into the maze of streets. I take a deep breath and enter the tavern.

            It takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the dim light, but there's only a handful of people in the place and Sanzo is at that same corner table as before. He glances up as I start to move between the tables, and in the dim light it almost looks like he flinched when he saw me. By the time I've gotten to the table he's slumped at, his attention is riveted to the bottom of his glass. The scent of alcohol wafts by me as he drains his glass and, remembering the first time I saw him drink, I examine him for evidence of inebriation. Or at least I try, but he doesn't look up at me and he doesn't say anything, so all I have to go on are his hands - which are slightly shaky, but not enough to qualify as 'drunk' opposed to 'weak from being sick'.

            "I brought you a rain cape," I offer quietly. "You can go back to the temple without having to wait for the rain to stop."

            Sanzo snorts into his empty glass, then refills it from a bottle on the table. When the sloshing liquid settles, the bottle is less than a quarter full. Several minutes pass in silence as Sanzo nurses his drink and I stand there, unsure of what I should say. Sanzo is still recovering from pneumonia and shouldn't be drinking at all, much less heavily or on an empty stomach. On the other hand, it seems like when Sanzo is under stress, he can't eat unless he drinks first. There must be something bothering him, and I won't be able to even attempt to figure out what if I'm not here. That, even more than the fact that I don't know the way back, is what keeps me there, just standing awkwardly in the corner, waiting for Sanzo to acknowledge my presence. Sanzo finishes his drink and pours the remainder of the bottle into his glass, still not even glancing in my direction. Another long stretch of silence passes as the level of Sanzo's glass gets lower and lower, and as he's draining it, the tavern keeper comes over with a second bottle.

            "So, is this your new acolyte?" He jerks his head in my direction as he sets the bottle down, then gives me a questioning glance when Sanzo doesn't respond.

            "Ah, it appears so." I answer the question ambiguously, not wanting to go into details but also not wishing to appear rude. Sanzo just grunts and pours himself another glass.

            "Has he got a name?"

            "No," Sanzo answers shortly, raising the glass to his lips again to cover their sardonic twist.

            There is a long pause; the tavern keeper takes the bottle and goes off to attend to another patron. It is several minutes before he comes back.

            "So, you want to tell me why he's here and you're a wreck?" The tavern keeper needles Sanzo, but just gets another grunt and a glare. He tops off Sanzo's glass and scrutinizes me, then drifts away again.

            Again several minutes go by while Sanzo sips and I stand in silence. This, apparently, is not lost on the tavern keeper as he comes back to pour another glass.

            "He hasn't said anything in the last hour, has he?"

            Sanzo ignores the question; I smile apologetically.

            "I don't think you're going to drive him off. You'll have to try harder." The admonishment is teasing, mocking Sanzo's seriousness. I smother a wince, and Sanzo cringes slightly.

            It's like time is paused; the rain beats on the roof, Sanzo sips his drink, the tavern keeper comes over now and then to pour another, and I stand in the corner like a shadow, holding the forgotten rain cape.

            No wonder Goku was skeptical.

            The windows are covered, and even if they weren't, the clouds are obscuring the sun. There's no way to gauge how much time has passed before the tavern keeper finally pauses after filling Sanzo's glass and looks at me as though weighing my worth.

            "He's still here, you know." Sanzo hunches over his glass, trying to ignore the digging reminder that I'm still standing there. "Looks like you found one that will put up with you, at least." There's open amusement in the tavern keeper's voice, like this is a long-standing ribbing he gives Sanzo every so often.

            Sanzo just draws in his shoulders as though trying to shrink into his robes. The tavern keeper gives me a 'what can you do' shrug and walks off again. Well, at least the panic and guilt have died quiet deaths, unnoticed and unlamented. It no longer matters so much why Sanzo came here, except that something is bothering him. I don't have any idea what I could possibly say that would convince him to tell me, but I won't walk away from him. Even aside from my vows, he's still recovering from pneumonia. If he's going to drink himself sick, I'm damn well going to be there to carry him back to his room.

            The tavern keeper comes back. "Do you want something to eat?" The words are address to Sanzo, but there is a questioning glance tossed my way as well. I shake my head silently, and he nods at me.

            "No." Sanzo's refusal is a vehement demand that the world leave him alone rather than the rejection of an offer.

            Be attentive...I've seen Sanzo reject food, and that's not what just happened. So he does want food, or at least would eat if food were presented. It's my responsibility to correct that lack, but I have no money with which to buy anything, and in any case, I wouldn't want to leave Sanzo alone. He's disappeared on me once; if he does it a second time, I don't have Goku here to guide me to him.

            Wait, Goku gave me a pastry. I shuffle the rain cape a bit and pull it out. Some of the crust has flaked away, but the waterproof wool seems to have protected it nicely. It's awkward, shifting the bundle of cloth to one arm, but I manage to set the pastry on the table by Sanzo's elbow without dropping anything. He glances over at it, still not looking up, and this time there is no hiding the flinch. He actually shifts in his seat, turning away from me slightly and hunching miserably over his drink, trying his hardest to ignore both me and the pastry.

            The drumming of rain on the roof starts getting patchy as the skies find themselves without much more water to shed on us. The sun must have gone down some time ago; the rain will stop soon.

            "I see he's being attentive." The tavern keeper looks from the ignored pastry to me, eyebrows raised in surprise and possibly admiration. Sanzo just snarls something not meant to be heard clearly and holds his glass out in a demand for more alcohol. Once the glass is filled, the tavern keeper looks at me again. "You can have a seat, you know."

            "That's alright." I gently reject the offer of hospitality. "We shouldn't be here much longer."

            Sanzo's cringe gets more pronounced as the tavern keeper walks away, and he whimpers slightly with a twitch that may have been an aborted glance back towards me. As if to emphasize my declaration, the drumming on the roof sputters into weak fits and then dies as the rain stops. Another long stretch of silence, made almost ominous by the absence of rain. Sanzo nurses his glass as though trying to make it last as long as possible in what may as well be a fit of sulking. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat and almost looks at me several times, but catches himself before his head turns more than a fraction. The tavern keeper is watching us, leaning against the bar and grinning at Sanzo's discomfort. It's obvious that he's not going to refill Sanzo's glass.

            Suddenly, Sanzo slams the glass down onto the table and snatches the pastry so smoothly that I almost miss it, going from sitting to stalking towards the door without seeming to actually stand up. I hurry to catch up and follow him through the nearly-abandoned streets. The pace he sets is uncomfortably fast; several times I have to jog a few steps to catch up. I can't quite see his hands, but the furtive motion of his shoulders hints at him eating the pastry I'd gotten from Goku. Well, at least he's eating something. The guards have barely enough time to glance up in surprise as we pass, and then we're inside the temple. The corridor is a wide one, well-traveled, but at this hour there is only one older monk in it shuffling towards us. He looks up as we get closer, recognizing Sanzo.

            "Most Honored Genjo Sanzo!" The whining, accusing tone causes Sanzo to stop dead, fists clenched discreetly. The monk hobbles up to Sanzo, the very picture of rightfully offended piety. "Your _companion_ has been insufferable these last few days! I certainly hope you do not intend to name him your successor! Even _this_ one-" he gestures at me "- would be a better choice, as disgraceful as it would be! _He_ at least knows how to address his elders with respect."

            There is a snort from Sanzo, and I would swear that his lips twitched as though repressing a smirk.

            "You were an appallingly disrespectful brat, you know." The monk continues, and I get the sudden urge to back slowly away from Sanzo. "I don't know what your predecessor ever saw in you, but he was always going on as though you were the next Bodhisattva. Everything he said was always about you. 'Kouryuu this' and 'Kouryuu that' and-"

            "That. Name. Is. DEAD."

            The hiss that escapes Sanzo's clenched teeth resonates like lightening in my very bones, and I find myself edging away as though from a dangerous predator. His eyes are clenched shut so tightly that the flesh around his eye sockets is white. I fully expect blood to drip from his hands with how his fists are clenched; his arms are trembling with the stress of it. There is a handful of seconds where Sanzo seems to be trying to get himself under control, and before that happens the monk lets out a terrified squeak and bolts the other way. The next few minutes are spent with only Sanzo's strained breathing to break the silence, and then with an effort he resumes stalking down the hall. Still a bit shaken, I follow him. I'm glad I did not call him by any name but his own. This would explain his vehement reaction to my assertion that my new name would not change what I was.

            Still wary of Sanzo, I let him get a bit ahead of me, and when he reaches his room the door is shut and locked by the time I catch up. Well, I have this poor neglected rain cape with me to keep me dry if it rains in the night, and it's been a while since I visited my little alcove. I'll just return it to Sanzo in the morning.

            The wall of my alcove has cooled by the time dawn arrives, but the rain cape keeps me warm and I drowse contentedly until the morning bell reminds me that I'm being slothful. I stand a bit stiffly and stretch, shaking the rain cape out carefully and folding it. The gentle midnight rain barely caused a stir and was more soothing than anything else, although my dreams were once again filled with Kanan's eyes. Early-morning sun sparkles in the drops left from the rain, and despite myself I am cheered. Sanzo is well again, I am rested, and everything seems right in the world. I am hungry, of course, but my duties come first.

            The corridors are mostly empty, with a few acolytes hurrying to finish their chores before the rain starts again. They pay me no mind, and my bland smile becomes a bit warmer. I much prefer to blend into my surroundings and be forgotten, especially with what I am and what my surroundings are. Sanzo's door is locked, of course, so I knock.

            Nothing.

            I knock again. "Sanzo?"

            No response.

            When an ear to the door proves only that my hearing isn't good enough to detect any signs of life within, I give up and squash my distaste enough to stash the rain cape in my cell. The dark windows in the doors gape at me, and I sternly remind myself that they are just windows. Nonetheless, my footsteps are more hurried than normal as I make my way out and to the dining hall. Sanzo is not there, but Goku is, and once I have assembled a tray I seek him out.

            "Hey, I was wondering where you were! How long were you in there last night, waiting for Sanzo?" Goku's cheerful babble holds just a touch of smugness.

            "Ah, later than I'd hoped."

            He nods wisely. "Past sunset? I'm surprised you got him out of there at all."

            He jumps up and slides his plate onto the tray before winding through the crowds towards the exit, keeping up a stream of chatter. We arrive at Sanzo's door, but it's still locked. Goku breaks his flow long enough to whine at Sanzo to unlock the door, but there's no response. After two seconds of silence, he presses his ear against the door and his brow furrows under the thick golden band inhibiting his chi.

            "He's not there." The words are tense, clipped. Goku looks up at me with confusion and the barest hint of panic. "He did come back last night, right?"

            I nod.

            "He...uh...probably just went into town for something. He does that sometimes. Hey, tell you what! Why don't you take your breakfast and eat in the garden with the koi pond - nice and quiet there this time of day - and leave the tray here, I'll just run into town and sniff him out. He still needs to eat, right? He just got over being sick, everyone needs to eat when they've been sick. You just stay here in the temple and I'll go find Sanzo, okay?"

            It's rushed, even for Goku, and the boy somehow manages to take the tray, shove my plate into my hands, and make shoo-shoo motions all at the same time. Bewildered by Sanzo's absence and the tightly reined panic in Goku's voice, I allow myself to be shooed away. As promised, the garden with the koi pond is empty, and I eat in mindful silence. When I judge that the kitchen has most likely cleared, I take my plate back and venture to Sanzo's room. Goku is nowhere to be seen, of course, and the tray is sitting outside the locked door. As I turn away, however, something catches my attention. An anomaly that it takes a minute of close inspection to identify - a detail about the tray that sends a tendril of dread down my spine.

            Goku's breakfast hasn't been finished. That detail occupies my mind as I make my way to the library, select a book at random, and hide in a corner. The book is open before me, but I don't see it. Instead, my vision is filled with the memory of that half-eaten meal lurking like a portent of doom on the tray. There's no doubt in my mind that Goku was trying not to panic. I've never seen the boy afraid, except for a few moments when I had Sanzo's gun trained a hand's breadth away from his forehead. Emptying my mind of all emotions and resolutely ignoring the stirrings of my own panic, I replay the scene in memory. Yes, Goku placed emphasis on my staying within the temple. Something's not right here. He guided me through the city just last night, why would there be a sudden need for me to remain within the temple walls? Facts and hypotheses swirl around in endless loops. Every so often I reject all the potential answers and go back just what I know, but there's nothing to build from. I don't know enough.

            The noon bell knocks me out of my restless thoughts, and with a sigh I give up and put my book back on the shelf. Just outside the library, I nearly collide with Goku.

           "Oh, there you are!" The boy is a bit wild about the eyes, glancing off to the sides as though watching for someone or something. "Hey, I wanted to catch you before you went to lunch. You don't need to bring Sanzo anything, he's still out in town. Oh, and it's raining again, so you might want to stay inside so you don't get sick."

           He gives me a deep, searching look at that and I nod, unsure of what to say. This seems to be enough for him, and he takes off running down the hall as though trying to get out of the temple as quickly as possible. I watch him go for a minute, then turn towards the dining hall. I am still not comfortable in the presence of the monks and priests, and I am certain they feel the same way about me. I eat quickly, not tasting the food at all and - despite Goku's admonishment - seek refuge in the privacy the rain offers. The idea of fetching Sanzo's rain cape from my cell occurs to me, but I do not venture back inside. The stone Buddha in my alcove-garden smiles benevolently at me as I kneel before it, as though to reassure me that this, too, will pass. Drops of rain make their way through my hair, running down my scalp and face, trickling down inside my robes. I can't help but think of Kanan, of how the rain soaked me as I made my way to Hyakugan Maoh's fortress. My chi stirs blue-white inside me, billowing towards my skin to counter the chill weather. I can feel each separate drop of water on my skin with a clarity that keeps the depression and guilt at bay.

           I don't care if I get sick.

           Mindfully, I trace the paths of the raindrops down my scalp, my arms, my back. Mindfully, I acknowledge my desire to inflict harm upon myself and accept that this desire is the main reason I am meditating in the rain. A bubble of glee at the thought of how sick I may get; I mindfully put it aside. A shard of unease at the knowledge that Sanzo would not approve. It turns into a dart of resentment towards Sanzo for taking off like this and worrying Goku, and I firmly set it aside. I'm sure Sanzo had his reasons.

           Thankfully, the sensory acuity granted by my excess of chi allows me to spend the hours acknowledging physical sensation and not striving to hold off the memories of the sins I committed. The evening bell tolls, but I ignore it. I don't need to fuel my chi any further until the excess has dissipated somewhat. Goku does not make an appearance, however, and I do not question his absence. Wherever Sanzo is, he will not willingly leave until the rain has stopped, and Goku is surely having as much luck convincing him otherwise as I did. My thoughts slide back into the labyrinth of running water, and it is not until much later that they emerge again and I find myself stiff and cold, with the last drops of night rain running down the Buddha's face. My chi no longer swirls blue-white within me, and as I check the position of the stars to estimate the time, my stomach growls. I must eat to fuel my body when my chi is not able to do so, and it can't be any later than midnight. The kitchen will be safe.

            The corridors are dark and deserted, but my eyes adjust easily to the dim light and with my previous experience rummaging for food, I am able to find the leftovers from dinner. I find myself edging closer to the banked coals in the larger fireplace; hunger must not be the only side effect of low chi. Either that, or the rain was colder than I thought. There are stools under a tall table by the fireplace; I pull one out and sit with my head propped up, thoughts once again on Sanzo's second - third? - unexpected departure. Goku was undeniably on edge when he found me around lunch. Surely, if Sanzo were in danger, Goku would not leave his side for something so trivial as to tell me not to bring him lunch. If Sanzo were fine, on the other hand, there should be no need for Goku to be so jumpy while delivering Sanzo’s message.

            Wait. Goku said only that Sanzo was in town, not Sanzo had sent him. I carefully review Goku's words again and realize that he never specifically said that he'd found Sanzo, either. Surely with how worried he'd been - he didn't finish eating, and that's more worried than I've ever seen him - he would have calmed down once he'd found the priest. That can only mean that Sanzo is still missing, or had not been located as of around noon today. Resolutely, I squash the urge to worry. Either Goku found Sanzo after lunch and they are both back in their respective rooms, or Sanzo is still missing. I won't know which it is until the morning bell rings, and until then there's no point in working myself up with hypothetical horrors.

            A little reluctantly, I stand up and push the stool back under the table. Warm and comforting as the kitchen may be, it is not a place I can sleep. Again I navigate dark corridors easily, finally entering the thick silence of my cell. The rain cape is folded neatly on the chair where I left it, but there is a pale figure lying on my bed. It does not move or breathe, and I keep my eyes averted as I snatch the cape and hurry out. I have no desire to see whether it is Kanan's body or Sanzo's. The rain cape is in place around my shoulders long before the night air makes me shiver slightly. For half a second, I consider actually sleeping in my cell, but reject the idea. It may be cold outside, but at least I won't have to share the garden with a dead phantom. A memory flashes past and instead of going to my thorny alcove, I head towards the corner I'd tucked myself into just before Sanzo returned. With the bush cutting the wind and the cape holding in the heat of my body, I drop off quickly.

            Sounds filter into my dreams long before I actually wake up. There is rustling and murmuring, and the Dark Crow compound I am fighting my way through starts to be built of bushes and trees rather than walls. The further I get, the less it looks like a compound, until I am running through a forest that is horribly familiar, chasing a figure that leaves a trail of broken branches and bloody leaves. The figure stumbles and I leap for it, knife outthrust for a killing stab. When I look up, however, my knife is buried past the hilt into the gut of a man with dark brown hair and green eyes, and my hand is fully inside the wound I made. When I pull it out, the knife is gone, replaced by talons half the length of the fingers they grace and coated in blood. I stare into my own eyes for a moment, shock reflecting in bewilderment, and then an angry rant shakes me again into the world. My view is partly obscured by the bush I am behind, but I can make out that Goku is being chased by a man who is yelling and waving a rake in both hands. I watch them pass out of sight around the corner, then slip out from behind the bush and back inside the temple.

            It will be another half an hour or more until the morning bell rings. I take my time in the baths and dare to allow myself to enjoy the thorough scrubbing and feeling of being clean. My back, in particular, is scrubbed as it hasn't been since before I launched my assault on Hyakugan Maoh. From the baths I go directly to Sanzo's room and dutifully present myself to bring him to breakfast. Before I can knock, however, Goku slouches towards me sullenly from the other direction. Eyebrows slightly raised, I give him a mildly expectant look. Sanzo, it seems, has not been located or has refused to return. I wonder if Goku will tell me which it is, or just try to evade it somehow.

            Goku glares at me for a long moment, his manner remarkably similar to Sanzo's as his stance challenges me to say something. "I'm still working on it," he finally grumbles reluctantly. "You just stay here." He folds his arms petulantly, and there is nothing for me to do but nod, and walk away.

            I take my breakfast to the koi pond again, and eat absently while watching a monk who must be a groundskeeper tend to the water-plants. He shoots me sullen looks at first, then ignores me as he finishes and leaves. I feed the last bits of my meal to the koi, enjoying the solitude and waiting for the rest of the population to finish eating and scatter before venturing back into inhabited areas. My quiet reflection is interrupted by the groundskeeper returning with the rake he'd chased Goku with earlier. He looks at me sourly, which seems to be a natural expression for him, and slaps a pair of thick gloves into the palm of one hand.

            "You the nameless one?"

            I nod, mildly stunned that anyone has sought me out at all. This is the first time any resident of the temple has addressed me without my first approaching him first.

            He jerks his head off to one side. "You been messing with any of the back gardens? The viney ones?"

            "I cleared the dead vines out of one," I offer apologetically.

            The groundskeeper grunts. "You did a good job, but don't do it again. Got some delicate plants back there."

            "My apologies, I didn't realize I would be intruding."

            He waves it off. "Aah, you didn't hurt the roots, which is more than I can say for some, and I wasn't looking forward to tangling with the thorns. Just don't do it again." He nods to me, then turns and stalks back the way he came.

            I am left blinking after him. It hadn't occurred to me that the temple would have someone to look after the gardens, but I've been horribly self-absorbed since my arrival. A part of me wonders if I should feel guilty for my actions with the vines, but the groundskeeper didn't seem to mind much. After all, I was excruciatingly careful to leave the live vines intact. This little encounter has opened my eyes to an oversight in my actions, however. I have started to atone for failing Kanan by being attentive to Sanzo, but there are a thousand youkai who are dead because of me, because I didn't care about their lives. Until I can find another way to atone for that, I should at least be aware of the people whose lives I am entering and strive to make my interactions as unobtrusive as possible. I am only alive to atone for my sins; my life has no meaning outside of that. If I can slip smoothly through the lives of those whose paths I cross and not cause them any problems - or even better, be helpful - then I will be able to start undoing all the damage I've done.

            Knowing that the kitchen will still be busy, I take my plate back. This time, however, I do not merely set it atop the pile and meekly retreat. Rather, I seek out the monk that seems to be in charge of the kitchen today. He turns from chastising an acolyte, giving me a resentful look.

            "What do you want?" He looks me up and down dismissively.

            I smoothly duck my head in a moderately formal bow. "This unworthy pair of hands wishes to serve those who follow the Buddha," I reply with as much submissive respect as I can manage. He's already decided he doesn't like me, so appeasing him and attempting to make myself useful will be an excellent test of how much I need to work on my new resolution.

            The monk's face twists in a sneer. "Well then, _unworthy one,_ " he stresses the formal phrase, and there is no doubt that he does not mean it symbolically. "There are pots that your hands would be well-suited to cleaning." He jerks his chin at the huge pot the chastised acolyte had been halfheartedly swiping at.

            The acolyte's face lights up in almost malicious pleasure, and he gives me a facetious bow as he surrenders the pot to me. Bland smile never wavering, I bow first to the monk and then to the acolyte before taking stock of what I've gotten myself into. The pot is easily large enough to hold a grown man and does not look like it has been thoroughly cleaned in months. Large patches of the charred and semi-charred remains of several unknown recipes are generously splattered on both the inside and the outside of it. I have at my disposal: a chunk of harsh soap, a bucket of water with a dishrag, and a worn wooden scraper. This will not be pleasant, but hard, dirty work is exactly what I deserve. Mindfully, I pick up the scraper in one hand and the dishrag with the other, and set to work. The task before me is sufficiently difficult that there is no room for thoughts more complex than "too much debris, wipe with cloth, continue scraping" and I am soon thoroughly engrossed. My world narrows; the glaring monk and the rest of the kitchen fade out and only the pot and its stains remain, until suddenly the noon bell rings and I discover that the pot has been scraped and rinsed to gleaming cleanliness, and the rag and bucket are horribly soiled with bits of burned food. My back aches horribly, my knees are stiff and sore, and my fingers are wrinkled and dirty, but the pot is clean.

            "Good enough," announces a growling voice behind me.

            My back spasms painfully as I start and twist around on my abused knees, catching my balance on the edge of the giant pot I'd devoted the morning to cleaning. "Ah, thank you, honored one," I manage to stammer out.

            The monk looks at me sourly, as though irked that I have not given him a reason to dislike me. "Go get washed up before eating. You've done enough." The monk turns away, dismissing me.

            Slowly, I climb to my feet and stretch for a few seconds before retreating to the baths. The sleeves and hem of my robe are filthy and soaked; I will need to change into a clean one. I take my time and enjoy the solitude of the baths as I wash thoroughly, emerging finally in a fresh robe. Most of the residents of the temple will have finished eating by now. What food remains is either cold or warm, depending on how the dish was meant to be served, but it doesn't matter. I scoop some rice and beans onto a round of bread and snag a wedge of cheese, then slip out silently and find an alcove in the gardens to eat in. A small bird of unfamiliar species joins me, watching with tilted head from the top of a bush. I break a piece of bread off and toss it towards the bush, and after a moment the bird hops down and pecks at it. We eat in comfortable silence for several minutes before the bird picks up the last of the small chunk and flies off. Having been abandoned, I seek refuge in the library as the afternoon rain starts. Obscure northern mythology occupies my attention until the evening bell, when I realize that I haven't seen Goku since just before breakfast.

            More than a little concerned, I hurry to Sanzo's room. Goku is leaning against the door sullenly, arms crossed and a worried scowl on his face. He looks up at my approach, but his unhappy expression does not lessen any. There is a long moment where he seems to be weighing two courses of action, and then he sighs.

            "I need your help," he says, and that simple statement causes a jolt of foreboding to shoot from my stomach to my heart, choking me with unknown terrors.

            “My help?” I repeat, trying to sound politely confused rather than stunned and verging on panic.

            “Yeah.” Goku scuffs the floor angrily with one foot. “I can’t find him. I’ve checked the bar and all his usual places, and no one’s so much as seen him. I thought maybe something had happened to him so I checked the – um, I checked around some more, but it’s like he just disappeared. I know it’s not like him to go for a classier inn, but it’s the only section of Chang An I haven’t checked yet.” He breaks off and scowls down the hall. “That’s why I need your help. No one in that part of town listens to me and a lot of ‘em don’t like me even being there. I’ll take you there tomorrow, and you can ask everyone if they’ve seen him.” He slouches down the hall the way I came, muttering that I should get some sleep and that he was going to get something to eat.

            Somehow, the thought of dinner doesn’t appeal to me right now and whether it is chi or nerves, I feel very restless. I don’t think sleep will come to me for a while. I slip down the hall and make a left, searching for the lesser meditation hall with the wooden Buddha. When I find it, however, there is sound coming from inside. I keep going, not wishing to intrude. On a side corridor, I stumble across an unusual meditation hall with a dozen or so alcoves set into the wall opposite from the door, which is in the middle of the left-hand wall. There is another door to the right on the back wall, and a modest stone Buddha to the left, at the front. Each alcove has tiny Buddha set into a niche on the front wall at eye-level if one is sitting or kneeling. The hall is empty and dark, which suits my mood perfectly. A glance confirms that there are alcoves on both sides of the hall, and I select one at the very back where I will not be seen by anyone coming in the side door, and stand a good chance to be hidden by shadows if anyone comes in through the door in the back. My chosen alcove is furnished with a wooden meditation stool and a sitting Buddha with a spray of preserved flowers draped across his lap. I wonder fleetingly who left them there as I settle myself on the stool, then direct my attention inwards. Sleep is not likely to be kind while I am fighting off worry. I close my eyes, shutting out the rest of the world, and search for my chi.

            Darkness from behind my eyelids, giving no distraction from outside my body. I focus on the field of my inner vision, but my body is dark. I contemplate my circulatory system objectively, and am rewarded with a dim red glow. Slowly the glow grows stronger, forming a lump that shudders in time with my heartbeat. Once I am able to sense my heart clearly, I extend my internal perception. The glowing representation of my heart begins sprouting branches, and time passes unnoticed while I watch the path of my veins and arteries unfold like the dawn illuminating a river and all its tributaries. Eventually, I am nothing more than a vessel for my circulatory system and turn my attention to my nerves, instead. The glow this time is white, tinged with blue and green, and begins in my spine. As the glow spreads and branches off, my spine starts to look very much like the worn, gilded illustration of the Tree of Life I once saw when I was younger. Again the branching continues, and I am treated to an unobstructed view of my nervous system. There is the fleeting desire for a pen and a sheet of parchment so that I could accurately illustrate what I’m seeing, and an idle thought that I should take up medicine, if I can harness this sort of insight. The pressure-points that can allow an outsider to control some of the body’s functions are clearly visible, shining like tiny lights in this softly-glowing network. I admire them for some time, correcting my memories of where I’d learned they were.

           When I judge that it must be close to dawn, I slip out of the meditation hall and find a window. The sky is pink, but the sun has not yet risen. Goku stated he would take me into the wealthier portion of Chang An today, and if I am to be presentable I will need to be clean. As always, the baths are deserted at this time of day and I take more pains with my appearance than I normally would. There is a comb that was left in one of the bathing stalls; I do not take it, but carefully comb my hair and place it back where I found it.

           Once I am clean and wrapped neatly in a fresh robe, I take my position by Sanzo's door and wait for my guide. After a few minutes, I find myself nervously brushing nonexistent lint from my robe and straightening it and my hair. I wish, now, that I had not cut my hair short over my left ear. I am very conscious of my inhibitors and the stigma they hold, and displaying it to the entirety of Chan An is not a comforting thought. Of course, I remind myself forcibly, no one is likely to recognize them as having belonged to Hyakugan Maoh and therefore identify me as his killer. Nonetheless, I make a brief attempt to cover them but give it up when the feel of hair on the curve of my ear does nothing but irritate me.

           Shortly after the breakfast bell sounds, Goku hurries up. He rakes a glance over me, nods, and gruffly asks, "You hungry?"

           I realize that I'm not hungry, and shake my head. He jerks his chin, indicating that I should follow, and hurries out. I follow at a jog, more fascinated by this display of Goku's worry than worried about what's causing it. As we pass through the city, he draws my attention to the names of the roads we're taking so that I can find my way back again. At one intersection, however, he stops and scowls at an inn with a wrought-iron fence.

           "This is it. You're on your own. Don't ask for Sanzo by name, just describe him. An' be polite. I'm gunna check the usual places again. Oh-" he stops and fishes out a fistful of coins, pouring them into my hands as I blink in startlement. "Get something to eat if you're hungry. May as well enjoy not being in that stuffy temple, eh?" He flashes me a grin and takes off, out of sight within seconds.

           On my own. In the middle of Chang An. Well, standing here isn't going to help me find Sanzo. I push aside the startlement and tuck the coins into a pocket in the sleeve of my robe, straighten it and my hair one last time, and walk into the inn. The innkeeper greets me politely, and I bow before asking if he's seen Sanzo. I give an accurate, if unflattering, description, but the man shakes his head. He hasn't seen anyone matching that description in the last three days. I thank him and leave, and then realize I'm not sure where to go next. He kindly provides me with some nearby inns and bars, and I leave again.

           The next innkeeper hasn't seen Sanzo, nor has the bartender. He hasn't been to any of the establishments on this street, and when I reach the end I find myself faced with the choice of going left down the cross-street, or right. With a shrug, I go right and continue asking. My description is becoming streamlined, and by noon I am able to rattle off the request and description smoothly, but have managed to become hopelessly lost. It takes another hour to backtrack to where I started, and this time I turn left and cover the areas I'd missed earlier. By late afternoon I am again lost; once more I backtrack, then work out a rough mental map of the district as I make my way back to where I'd left off. I'm skirting the edges of Chang An by the time the sun starts to set. When the innkeeper of the establishment I visit next greets me with an exasperated “You again?”, I realize that in my wanderings I must have been here before and not known it. I bow and apologize, explaining that I'm not familiar with the city.

           "This friend of yours must not want to be found," she says briskly, tucking a few strands of hair back behind her ear. "Have you tried the place behind the hill?"

           At my blank look, she explains that there's a little farmer's village roughly an hour's walk from here, and gives me directions. The inn sounds like it couldn't have more than a half-dozen rooms to it, but it would make an ideal spot to hide if one doesn't want to be found. I thank the woman and start walking, out of Chang An and up the hill.

           All day, I've been resolutely ignoring the circumstances that brought me out of the temple, and focusing instead on my task. But now, there is no such distraction and I am forced to put the thoughts more and more forcefully aside. By the time I reach the crest of the hill, I have entered a sort of unemotional and objective mindset, separated from reality by an iron detachment. Legs ache after the climb, but they are not mine. Breeze ruffles hair, but it is not mine. There is a body descending the hill towards the tiny village nestled in the valley below, but it is pure coincidence that my mind resides within it.

           The inn is worn and shabby, with a small corral attached to the barn. Several horses are stabled, to judge by the sound, and a lone goat eyes me crankily from within the corral as it pulls at some uninviting vegetation growing by the fence. Light and the sounds of comfortable people leak out from around the door, which is rough and may have once been painted green. The conversations do not still as I enter; rather, they rise a notch in audible speculation. For some reason, each voice seems clear and distinct and every motion almost leaps out at me, even peripherally. For example, the swaying of a loose sleeve of dusty cloth around an arm. It clings to the doorframe in an unmistakable attempt by the person on the other side of the wall to keep from falling over. Within seconds it vanishes and was the only portion of the person's body visible, but in an unemotional, detached way, I am certain that it was Sanzo's.

           A woman in plain, worn clothes greets me. The stocky, balding man behind the counter is undoubtedly her husband. I smile, the same empty smile that has been given out so often today that it has become a mask, and blithely deliver Sanzo's description and my request for information. My words and motions seem stilted, to me, and hers feel scripted. It is no surprise that she confirms that such a man has been here for three days, drinking heavily without eating. I am almost able to predict her words when she expresses relief that the temple has sent someone to fetch him, and I am bowing and thanking her almost before she tells me that he was in the common room, but must have gone back to room three, in the back hallway. She points to the doorway I saw the arm clinging to, and like a character in a play I follow Sanzo's path.

           The hallway is dim and dingy, but it doesn't make a difference. A faint, warm glow comes from behind the third door, and it opens easily to my push. The room is small and equally worn, with rough wooden walls and a small-paned window. It is a room intended for farmers to sleep off their inebriation in, nothing more. The cot is sturdy but shabby, and a large basin such as is used to wash clothes sits on the side of the room to my right. It looks rusty. Sanzo is sitting awkwardly on the cot, half-sprawled, off-balance and propped up as though he had fallen onto it. Considering his odor and appearance, he does not appear to have been sober in at least a day or two. His hair is sticking up in several places, adding to the disheveled appearance. His eyes, when he glances at me guiltily, are bloodshot, and he hasn't shaved in a few days.

           "So," I hear myself say, "this is what you meant when you said that I would hardly be a stain on your reputation?"

           Sanzo opens and closes his mouth, looking further away from me and squirming slightly, torn between evading my presence and finding an answer. The cold, calculating part of me seems to be in control, and none of this charade elicits an emotional response. I am a vessel of dispassionate logic; smoothly, I close the distance to Sanzo. Calmly, my hands reach out and with exact precision, apply pressure to the clusters of nerves that I had so recently seen shining behind my eyes, disabling Sanzo's arms and legs. Muscles no longer responding, Sanzo is a slight, but still dead weight beneath my hands and with no hesitation I maneuver him to a kneeling position in front of the basin. Those loose sleeves serve to keep his arms restrained; with my right hand I gather them and the back of Sanzo's robes, pinning his arms behind him and holding him up briefly while the fingers of my left hand crawl across his abdomen, following sickly green strands until they sink almost of their own accord into a knot where several intersect. Sanzo doubles over as the muscles of his stomach contract, and I spread my left hand out to catch his chest so that he does not fall. It cushions him against the forward motion while my right hand holding the loose fabric pulls him back, and I am able to keep him steady while his body empties itself.

           It is a long time before he stops retching.

           When the spasming of Sanzo's stomach muscles finally ends, I lean back slightly to grab the corner of whatever rough material served as a blanket, and wipe his mouth. His eyes roll towards me, but if there is any comprehension in them, it is buried beneath exhaustion and he does not speak. He is still largely dead weight, but not beyond what I can carry. With some careful maneuvering, I am able to get him to his feet. My right arm around his waist and my left keeping his left over my shoulder make it seem that I am merely supporting Sanzo, rather than carrying the majority of his weight. He is at least aware enough to feel shamed at the situation, but does not fight me. The sense of following a script returns as I guide him back to the common room, where the patrons chatter amongst themselves at Sanzo's expense. The woman wipes her hands on a stained dishrag and comes over, expressing some measure of joy on my behalf that I was able to find my friend. I thank her warmly from behind my mask, words that hold no meaning for me spilling forth effortlessly. Most of the coins Goku had left me with go to settle Sanzo's tab, along with a few extra in apology for the mess we've left her with. She wishes me good night and I return the sentiment before making my way slowly out of the tiny tavern and into the night. Within a dozen steps, Sanzo goes fully limp and I crouch slightly to maneuver his sleeping form onto my back.

           My shield of emotional detachment remains firmly in place, and in a tiny corner of my mind I am able to enjoy the exertion in the quiet night air, Sanzo's body a warm weight countering the cool breeze as I resume my solitary trek back to the temple. It is between two and three hours to midnight when we enter Chang An again, and the streets in this wealthy section are largely deserted. With the cold, logical portion of myself to the fore, I am able to easily navigate through the streets and it does not take more than an hour until the temple steps loom before me. The guards pay us no attention as I slowly pass, but once we are inside the temple proper Goku appears from somewhere behind us, concern and jubilation vying for expression. He does his best to keep both in check, however, and simply tells me to go to Sanzo's room, and that he'll meet us there. He runs off, and with a mental shrug I shift Sanzo's unconscious body a bit higher and make my way to his door. When I get there, I can hear a scrabbling from the inside of the room, and the protest of the metal shutters, and then the door opens. Goku pants very slightly as he holds the door open, and then closes it behind me.

           "Should we do anything else for him?" I ask as I try to lay Sanzo on the bed, but only succeed at easing the fall as he tumbles from my back. There is a growing realization that I need food, and quickly, and the detachment breaks in the face of that need.

           Goku scowls at the priest, hands jammed into his pockets. "Nah. He did this to himself. Let him suffer." He glances at me, then scuffs the floor with one foot and turns to the door. "I'm going to bed. You can do whatever you want."

           I watch as the door closes behind him, my own needs fighting with my oath to attend Sanzo's. However, until he wakes, there is little I can do for him. I settle for covering him with a blanket, and then take my own leave.


	11. Hanged Man

            Raiding the kitchen for leftovers makes me feel a little guilty; it is obvious that the remnants of the last few meals are intended for a sort of leftover soup. Unworthy as I am, however, I am still a resident of the temple and deserve to eat the same as anyone else does, even if I do so after the meal is over. Cold sesame-roasted tofu and red beans with rice are enough to satisfy the demands of my body; I eat quickly and leave quickly. The night air is too cold for sleeping outside, even if my garden weren't soaking wet and it would be bending - if not breaking - my word to Sanzo to sleep there with how much time I've already spent outside tonight. Furthermore, sleeping in a wet robe would be inviting all sorts of illnesses on my part, and being sick is not acceptable.

            The baths are dark, but not much more so than the pre-dawn hours. I wash briefly, shivering at the cold water, and gratefully wrap a fresh robe around my body. There is a sort of shiver that has nothing to do with my flesh; my chi must be trying to combat the cold and failing because it will have nothing to fuel itself with until I have digested my dinner. Hands tucked into my sleeves, I make my way to my cell. Invitation aside, I should not be imposing on Sanzo's privacy just because my subconscious has an over-active imagination. Surely serving Sanzo as I have been, combined with a will bolstered by being secure in my duty, will allow me to defeat the hallucinatory horrors my mind paints in the dark.

            The door to my cell creaks slightly as it opens, but it closes silently behind me. Sanzo's rain cape sits on my bed where I'd left it, folded neatly. I transfer it to the chair, set my eyepiece on top of it and lay down, resolutely ignoring the still figure already in the bed. After a minute or two, the temptation to look at the hallucination gets stronger and I roll over, away from it. I close my eyes, but neither sleep nor the nightmares come. Instead, I am horribly aware of the corpse behind me. Telling myself that it's not really there does me no good; the corpse starts breathing on the back of my neck. It takes a strong effort to not shriek and run blindly down the hall.

            "Why did you let me die?"

            I bite my fingers, choking back any reaction to Sanzo's hoarse voice. The hallucination says nothing else, waiting for a response. I should reply. I must defeat this fabrication of my own mind. "You're not dead," I say shakily. "You're upstairs in your room, sleeping."

            Sanzo's corpse breathes on my neck a few more times. "Are you sure?"

            Adrenaline courses through my body like ice water. Men have died from drinking too much alcohol. I'm _not_ sure.

            "You left me alone," Sanzo's corpse accuses me. "You want me to die. I'm just a barrier keeping you from your _precious_ Kanan."

            "No," I protest weakly, trying to tell myself that none of this is real. "That's not true..."

            "You abandoned me. Like you abandoned _her_."

            Real or not, I can't take this. Eyes averted from the bed, I fumble for eyepiece and rain cape and am out of my cell within two breaths, almost running for Sanzo's room. His door is unlocked, of course, but I lock it behind me and lean against until I've caught my breath.

            Sanzo is in his bed.

            Sanzo is still breathing.

            My legs buckle in relief and I slide to the floor, eyepiece clutched in one hand, holding the rain cape to my chest. Sanzo is still breathing. I have not failed him. I sit there for several minutes, leaning against the door with my eyes closed, until the sound of metal striking the floor hurls me back into the waking realm. My eyepiece must have fallen from my hand when I drifted off. Well, no harm done. I set it carefully out of the way and use the rain cape as a pillow, slipping easily into dreamless sleep until Sanzo coughs. I jerk back awake, but he rolls over, still asleep. From the light coming through the cracks of the storm shutters, it must be just after dawn. Sanzo will need fluids and mild foods when he wakes, and I do not wish to risk him vanishing a third time. The rain cape gets draped over a chair and I slip out quietly, cleaning my eyepiece as I make my way down to the kitchens. There is a single acolyte stoking the fires, but he ignores me. It doesn't take too much searching for me to find a tray and assemble a selection of unthreatening things to drink and nibble on. Sanzo is, thankfully, still sleeping when I return. I set the tray on his table, lock the door, and set about finding his shaving kit. Unsurprisingly, it is exactly where it was when I last borrowed his straight razor. It takes only a few minutes to get that set up, as well.

            Sanzo stirs slightly and moans from beneath his blanket, signaling either that he is awake, or will be shortly. Given the odor that wafts by with his exhalation, it can be safely assumed that he has not bathed since he was sick. He will have to fend for himself on that front; I have no way to bring a bath to him, but I can at least open the shutters and let in some fresh air. As always, it is a struggle to get the metal shutters open, and they screech protest before relenting. As the room floods with early sunlight, Sanzo utters a quiet but rather intense stream of curses - some without targets, but most of them aimed at me specifically. It takes me several deep breaths before I am able to shunt my emotional reaction into a mask of impersonal politeness. I swore to Kanan that I would protect her, and I failed. Seeing to Sanzo's needs is the only way I have to atone for that sin; if he curses me for that, so be it. I will bear it without anger or resentment, even if it kills me. I will suffer it without complaint for _her._ Mask firmly in place, I turn to the bed. Sanzo is sitting up, blanket tangled around him, eyeing the breakfast tray as though it contained poisonous serpents.

            "I thought it would be better to bring it to you," I say calmly. "You need to replace the fluids you lost, and I didn't expect you to be up to dining with the rest of the temple."

            Sanzo makes a strangled sound that might be either a bitten-back curse or a wordless expression of nausea, shooting me a dark look briefly before pulling the blanket tighter around himself, still glaring at the tray as though willing it out of existence.

            "You left before you had fully recovered, and while alcohol comes from grain, it does not provide enough nourishment to replace the act of eating."

            I probably shouldn't have said that. My tone was flawless, neither accusing nor implying disapproval, but the words themselves could be interpreted to be a criticism. It is not my place to determine how Sanzo should live his life. No reprimand is forthcoming, however. Sanzo makes a sound of discontent and reaches for the table with one hand, but he does not pick up food or drink. Instead, he holds his razor in one hand that trembles so badly that I'm afraid the blade will close on his fingers, and it is this that he is directing his extreme displeasure at, rather than the food.

            "Glaring at the razor isn't going to make it go away," I say lightly, trying not to be amused. Sanzo gives me a sour look and attempts to put it back on the table, but his arm shakes and it falls to the floor. I bend down and pick it up. "Perhaps I had better do that for you. The way your hand is shaking, you're liable to kill yourself with it."

            The blade slides smoothly back into the handle, and reach out to set it back on the table. Out of the corner of my eye, however, I see that Sanzo has gone very still and pale.

            Time seems to slow as he opens his mouth, and that hoarse voice from last night says, "I thought _you_ were the one who wanted to die. Why should you care if _I_ do? There wouldn't be anything preventing you from rejoining-" that pale face twists into a resentful mockery of Sanzo's features- "your _precious_ Kanan."

            My heart leaps into my mouth and I freeze, fighting down panic. The hallucinations have never come during the day before – am I no longer safe even after the sun rises? I know that my face must be reflecting at least a portion of what I am feeling, the same as the night Sanzo came to my cell and I first saw his phantom corpse. With considerable effort, I force a friendly smile onto my face and slowly set the razor down. That didn't really happen. It couldn’t have. Just pretend it didn't happen. He didn't really say that. Act like you didn't hear it.

            "Ah, shaving can wait until you're feeling better." My voice is shaky. Sanzo has to have noticed. I glance at him to gauge my slip-up by his reaction, but he's looking at me in as much shock and horror as I must have been looking at him. "Ah," I scramble to find something to say, but my thoughts merely run in circles, and slowing them down enough to think clearly would surely shatter the fragile mask of neutrality I'm striving to hold up. "I'll just take my leave of you, unless there's something else you need..?"

            Sanzo seems to be having as much trouble finding words as I am. "Water," he croaks out, and I smoothly pour him a glass and set it where he can easily reach. He's looking everywhere except at me, and I don't think I could bear to see what's in his eyes if he did meet my gaze. I bow formally and calmly go to the door, closing it gently behind me before my composure cracks further. Sanzo's expression...that means...

            No. I will not contemplate that here. Where, then? My garden? Too well-known. Sanzo or Goku would look for me there first. The library is not a place to have a breakdown. Where...?

            My cell is the only other private corner I know of where Sanzo would not immediately think to look for me - or at least, not without exhausting the other possibilities first. Thus, it is there that I go. The bed is visible from the window in the door, so I hide in the corner before allowing myself the luxury to finish the sentence that had hung uncompleted in my mind since I saw the look on Sanzo's face.

            Sanzo was clearly as horrified by those words as I was. He could not have heard those words if they had been uttered by his specter. My hallucinations have never come out into the light. Therefore...

            It was not a hallucination. As much as I would prefer it had been, it was not. Sanzo _did_ say those words. My eyes close and I pull my knees up, pressing my temple against the cool stone wall as a wave of despair breaks over me. Emotions and bits of memory tug me one way, then another. Does he resent my presence that much?

            _~He should be made to live every day with the knowledge of what he's done.~_ I laugh bitterly, tasting salt. That much has been accomplished, at least. Kanan's specter sees to that.

_~What kind of man_ are _you, Gonou?~_ Do my hallucinations speak the truth not only in my own heart, I wonder, but in the hearts of who they represent? Did Kanan truly kill herself to escape my bloody embrace?

_~I don't think you're going to drive him off. You'll have to try harder.~_ The tavern keeper’s amusement, Sanzo's cringe. Does Sanzo _want_ to drive me off? Or is it that he tries to drive everyone else off? Right Mindfulness. Base perceptions on observation, not conjecture.

            _~'Proper' is not exactly a concern of mine.~_ Sanzo's scorn. The older priest's bald statement of Sanzo being disrespectful - is that how he's typically treated by the temple?

_~Don’t bother looking for a place to sit. We’re not staying.~_ That wasn't just for my benefit; Sanzo knew exactly where he was going. He must not eat with the other residents of the temple if he can help it.

_~I see him. What about it?~_ What time had it been when that monk woke Sanzo to complain about me in the Grand Hall? It was before dawn at least, and Sanzo is not fond of mornings.

            Was the whole thing just a reaction to the situation? Lashing out in attempts to maintain his appearance of being strong? The more I think about it, the more that explanation makes sense. Sanzo was unhappy about being seen in such an embarrassing and vulnerable state; he didn't mean what he said. In fact, the only time I can remember him saying anything negative to or about me was at the trial. And if it's true that he dislikes the temple as much as he seems to, then maybe he didn't truly mean that, either. It might have been word games played within the temple's rules, using their arguments against them. A means to an end - and that end was my continued life.

            _~If you die now...I will have failed at everything important I have tried to accomplish in my life.~_ What else has Sanzo tried to do? I know the bare facts about what happened to Koumyou Sanzo, but what other tasks has Sanzo set himself that he has been unable to accomplish?

_~I'm going alone.~_ Sanzo knew that the rainy season was starting. He knew he would get sick, and yet he still insisted on going alone. It wasn't just my presence; Goku said he did that often.

            _~Don't let them see.~_ He was already sick when he said that; he much have traveled half a day at least when he should have been in bed. Too proud to show weakness? He shuts even Goku out and refuses to let himself be cared for.

            _~I ate it all, Koumyou.~_ Does he always revert to such a vulnerable state when he's sick?

_~Don't worry about me.~_ He seems to not want others to care about him - does he not allow himself to care for others in the same way?

_~It's my decision who I'm going to worry about.~_ The tremor in Sanzo's voice...

            The tolling of the noon bell banishes the fragments of memory swirling around and sets my thoughts back in straight lines. I have enough of a grasp on Sanzo's behavior to deal with the current situation. I am alive only to atone for my sins by performing their opposites; the primary expression of that is being attentive to Sanzo's needs and not causing him any trouble. It is not my place to judge him, or how he lives his life, but simply to be there in whatever capacity he may require. My ear aches slightly as I stand up; I must remember to not lean to the left. I am fairly certain that Sanzo didn't mean what he said. Therefore, it is not my place to be hurt by it. He wants me to live, and he has demonstrated concern for me since the trial, and perhaps before that. Somehow, between waking up on the road and arriving here, my eye had been bandaged. Well, that's just one more debt I have to Sanzo. If concern for another is not something that comes easily to him, then my duty is to live in such a way that I don't cause him any further concerns.

            The door to my cell opens silently, and I head to the dining hall. It's my responsibility to see to Sanzo's needs. Right now, he needs to eat and replenish his strength, and if he has his way he'll likely hole himself back up in his room. Therefore, I will bring him food. If he indicates that my presence is welcome, I will stay. If not, I will deliver his lunch and give him space. I will not hold his words or actions against him and will not allow him to drive me away. A warm, impersonal smile fits itself onto my face. I will live the rest of my life repaying him for sparing my life, and if part of that means accepting whatever verbal blows he cares to throw my way, then so be it.

            After all, I promised.  
  
            ********************************************************* 

            When I knock on Sanzo's door, a growled demand for my name is all the greeting I get. I'm never sure how I should answer that.

            "It's me," I reply, for lack of anything better to say. "I've brought lunch, if you're up for it."

            The silence I get in return is as much concession as anything. The door, surprisingly, is unlocked. Sanzo is almost hiding under his blanket, and despite myself I can feel my heart jump. My presence is causing him pain. The benign smile freezes slightly as I unload lunch from the tray and replace it with breakfast, leaving the water, juice, and weak tea on the table. If Sanzo wanted my company, he wouldn't be staring so hard off to the side with a stricken look. I bow slightly over the tray and leave.

            Goku comes running up as I close the door behind me. He looks intently at the door and the tray of picked-at foods, then deliberately turns his back to Sanzo's room and walks down the hall with me.

            "He's awake, then?" There is a mixture of hope, relief, hurt, and scorn in the boy's words. "Where'd you find him, anyway?"

            "Yes," I answer the first question calmly, slipping him a sweet roll Sanzo didn't eat. "He was in the village behind the hill." I help myself to the sliced apples, and there is silence for a minute.

            "Shoulda known he'd be there." Disappointment replaces the hope and relief. "I guess he's pretty hung-over, huh?"

            _Does he do this often?_ "Ah, yes, I would say that. He doesn't seem like he'll go anywhere for a while, at least."

            Goku snorts. "Better not. Hey, thanks for everything. You're really an okay guy, an' I'm sorry you gotta put up with Sanzo's bad habits on top of having to stay _here._ " He waves one hand, indicating and dismissing the entire temple before flashing me a grin. "Just remember to look out for yourself, huh? I'll see ya around!"

            With that he takes off towards the dining hall, leaving me with the remnants of Sanzo's breakfast for company. I watch him go before balancing the tray on a thick windowsill and eat in silence, watching the rain.

            Rain. Cold. Sanzo. I doubt Sanzo will be able to close the shutters by himself in his weakened state, but I also have to return the tray and dishes to the kitchen. With a sigh, I mentally gauge the distance from where I am to both the kitchens and Sanzo's room. May as well visit the kitchens first and drop off the dishes, then check on Sanzo under the guise of retrieving lunch dishes - assuming he ate anything, that is. The remnants of Sanzo's breakfast are quickly devoured as I hurry to the kitchen, chiding myself every other step. I should have thought ahead, should have closed the shutter before I left. I'm responsible for Sanzo being where he is, and in the state he is - ignore the possibility of where he'd be, and in what state, if I hadn't been told of the village behind the hill - so it's my responsibility to see to it that he doesn't get sick due to my inattentiveness.

            When I return to Sanzo's room and knock, there is no answer.

            "Sanzo?"

            I press my ear to the door and can hear a faint rustle, as well as the muffled sound of rain. The door is still unlocked, and with raised eyebrows I open it slowly. Briefly, I catch a glimpse of the haunted expression on Sanzo's face before be becomes deeply interested in the mug of water I'd poured for him. He holds it in both hands, not drinking it, but rather staring into its depths as though it would reveal the mysteries of the world to him. Guilt and self-reproach both get shunted into my facade as I smile blandly and bow to Sanzo before wrestling the shutter closed again. I don't trust myself to comment on the rain and Sanzo's health. He has at least picked at lunch, but he can't have eaten much.

            "Shall I leave the dishes for you a while longer?" I ask softly, not looking at Sanzo. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see him nod jerkily. Another formal bow, and I let myself back out.

            I should go to the library. Find some obscure manuscript and lose myself in the tale it weaves. Spend a few hours tucked into a nice corner, warm and dry. That’s what I should do, but I don’t. The stone Buddha in my little garden smiles at me as though reassuring me that this, too, shall pass. My chi will no doubt need to be used after having been so well-fed, and warding off the rain that trails cold fingers down my back should occupy it nicely. I kneel reverently before the Buddha. It’s been too long since I was here last, or at least it seems that way. A part of me almost longs for my thorny whip, but that thought gets cut off before it even forms. I cannot hurt myself in penance.

            Cannot hurt myself…but I can still punish myself. The rain running through my hair and under my robes is like the hands of the youkai I killed, ghostly fingers seeking to drag me down to the realm I sent them to. Replaying the morning again and again, I ruthlessly strip it down, searching for the slightest word or action that was performed wrongly. When each possible infraction has been identified and magnified, I harshly remind myself of what it was I should not have done or said before mercilessly lashing myself with what I should do and say in the future, should the situation present itself again.

            My eyes have been closed, the better to see my memory, but I am suddenly aware of my chi. The blue-white of it ripples and runs as it attempts to counteract the cold rain, but that is not what shook me from the web of self-reproach. Without opening my eyes, I know that someone is watching me. The rain hid his footsteps and the darkness behind my eyelids hid him from my sight, but the eye-searing blue sparks are unmistakable. I take a deep breath, calm once again and secure after my reprimanding. Composed, I look over to where Sanzo is clinging with pale hands to the arch that leads to the rest of the gardens. Although his very posture screams that my presence causes him pain, I feel only overwhelming concern for his health. His gaze flinches away from me as I climb to my feet, finding some insignificant detail of the ground to fix on instead.

            “I’m sorry.” The words are barely audible, choked out through repressed coughs.

            “Sanzo…” I ignore the apology, telling myself that I’m simply concerned for his health and that he’s apologizing for being out in the rain. “You shouldn’t be out here. You’ll get sick again.”

           He was sick, he didn’t know what he was saying, and I have already forgiven the words – he doesn’t need to apologize for _that_. It’s in the past. It doesn’t matter. I hurry over to him, slipping his arm over my shoulder and supporting his weight. He’s soaked, and his whole body is trembling. How long did it take him to make his way to this neglected alcove? I hurry him back inside, almost carrying him, and guide him through deserted halls back to his room. He does not attempt to say anything else, either on the way there or when I strip the sodden outer robe from him and bundle him in blankets. He’s definitely shivering. I glance around for something else to warm him with, and see the small brazier I’d purloined still sitting in a corner with its bag of charcoal next to it. Well, that’s a surprise, but a useful surprise. I set it up on the table by Sanzo’s bed, absently eating half of his mostly-untouched lunch as I do, and pick up one of the coals. The candle and lamp have been out for three days. I’m going to have to do this the hard way. I force my chi into my hands, eyes closed in concentration. I can feel the tiny bolts cross through the unlit lump between my palms, and the coal starts to grow warmer. More chi; the lump is suddenly hot, and my hands jerks apart in reaction. The now-lit coal falls onto its brethren, who slowly follow suit and light themselves. That should warm the room sufficiently.

           Sanzo huddles within his blankets, eyes closed. I gather up the remains of lunch and bow, closing the door behind me as I slip out. The dishes are entirely empty by the time I reach the kitchen, and it is not quite dinnertime, but I doubt Sanzo will be able to eat much anyway. As I leave my burden by the sinks, another monk comes in and imperiously demands a tray for the Abbott. One of the kitchen helpers assembles an early serving of dinner, a teapot and teacup, and carefully covers the tray. The monk takes it and leaves without a word of thanks. Dare I…?

           Yes. For Sanzo, I will dare.

           “Ah, your pardon,” I start politely. The kitchen helper looks up at me as though surprised to see me. “The Honored Genjo Sanzo would like to take dinner in his room, as well, and would like a pot of hot tea. If it’s not too much trouble…?” I let the question trail off diffidently, and the other man blinks a bit.

           “Oh, no trouble at all…” He fills another pot and sets it in the coals to heat while dishing out more food than Sanzo would ever eat at a single meal. When the pot begins to burble, the man pulls it out with a short hook, scoops a portion of tea leaves into it, and carefully re-covers it before setting it on the tray. I place the cover over the tray and bow to the kitchen helper with my thanks, and he mutters that it was nothing. He is obviously not used to being thanked for favors that others likely consider to be part of his duties. I bow again and leave with the tray.

           When I return to Sanzo’s room, I let myself in without knocking. It’s not until I see Sanzo fumbling for something inside his cocoon of blankets, obviously panicked until he saw my face, that I realize that I should have announced myself. I apologize, but he just looks uncomfortable and turns his head. It takes some careful maneuvering before I can get everything settled on the table around the brazier, and the scents of dinner catch his attention again. The cooks steamed the rice with jasmine, and Sanzo is eyeing it as though trying to decide if he would be able to eat it or not. The mug of tea I pour for him gets his attention first, however. His hands still look very pale and cold as he reaches for it, and he sips only slowly, mug carefully held in both hands to warm them.

           “Will you need anything else?” I ask after a minute. Sanzo makes a discontented sound and shakes his head, so I bow carefully and let myself out.

           Sanzo’s continued uneasiness with my presence leaves me at loose ends. I reassure myself that I have done everything within my power to make him as comfortable as possible. He is warm and mostly dry, has food and hot tea, and I have absented myself. I have not punished myself in ways that have been forbidden to me, nor am I fettered by emotional punishments. There is nothing further I can think of that would be of use to do and several hours before I must face the prospect of sleep, so I allow myself the luxury of the library. A thick treatise on the natures of various youkai clans catches my eye, and the author’s theory keeps my attention until the librarian shows me out. I make my way to Sanzo’s room, intending to retrieve the dishes that are no doubt still burdened by food long since cold, but when I pause by his door, there is no light behind it. Not wanting to wake or disturb him, I leave quietly.

           Where to go? I wander the halls, pondering my extremely limited choices. My cell? I reject the idea immediately. The garden? It would be bending my promise to not stay outside all night, and it is no doubt still wet from the rain. The corner that served me twice before? It is sheltered, but still outside. No. With no other direction, I find myself in the area of the Temple that is devoted to meditation halls. The Grand Hall? I grimace, remembering the scene I’d caused that first night. Out of the question. One of the lesser halls, perhaps? I contemplate the idea, but find no objections forthcoming. A lesser meditation hall it is.

           After a few minutes of searching, I find a small hall – no larger than a generous bedroom – with a dozen or so flat cushions arranged around the edges, leaving the center clear. Perhaps it is typically used as a meeting room, someplace where monks may gather for discussion; it matters not. I take a seat in the far corner and slow my breathing. Meditation in a silent, dark room is likely to fade easily into slumber, and if any should see me, they can hardly find fault in my perceived meditation.

           The silence around me makes it easy for me to empty my mind, and simply exist in the moment. Thus it could have been a minute, or an hour, or half the night before I am suddenly aware of eyes upon me. My pulse quickens and my breath catches in my throat. I do not want to open my eyes and see if the ones looking back at me belong to one living, or dead. I listen intently, but mine are the only breaths I hear. The few noises made by cloth shifting come from my robes alone. The unseen eyes continue to watch me, waiting. It is only a matter of time before I give in and open my eyes with a sigh.

           The room is empty.

           Cursing myself for imagining things, I close my eyes again and strain to calm my heart and mind. My breathing slows and my pulse quiets, but my mind does not. The nightmares that harry me when the hallucinations fail have me in their grasp; each time I am able to empty my mind, it is filled with distorted memories of Dark Crow youkai that screamed and begged for mercy – for their wives and children, if not for themselves. It is a struggle to calm myself after each relived death, and it gets harder each time. Finally, the memory of a murder that I had done my best to forget plays itself out behind my eyelids: a babe not yet weaned. I admit defeat and stand up. Sanzo _did_ offer me the option of sleeping in his room so long as I was quiet about it, and I can’t think of any other place where I would be able to get any rest.

           The halls are empty and almost completely dark, but my eyes have adjusted to the lack of light and I make my way easily to Sanzo’s door. Slowly, I test the handle. It’s unlocked, surprisingly.  As quietly as I can, I open the door and slip inside, closing it equally quietly behind me. There is a rustle of motion from the bed and I call Sanzo’s name softly, but there is no response. He must be asleep. The brazier is still lit, and a faint ruddy light warms the ceiling. I don’t wish to intrude – after all, I am only seeking refuge from myself – so I tuck myself into a corner and lean carefully against the wall. Thus sheltered, sleep comes easily and without nightmares. Even so, it is still a light sleep, one filled with blue-white clouds and deep red shadows and the occasional blue spark. I come awake again as the red shadows and white clouds fade out; the brazier must have gone out. Well, it can’t be far past dawn. The sun will heat the air soon enough, and the morning bell will start ringing within the hour.

           As quietly as possible, I slip out of Sanzo’s room and close the door behind me. There will be time enough in the day to attend to the brazier and dishes from supper. I bathe in cold water and change before spending a few minutes meditating in a garden planted with young oaks, a stone Buddha nestled between them. This garden is close to the kitchens, and I am able to obtain a breakfast tray well before the Temple’s residents can descend upon the dining hall. The breakfast bell starts tolling as I near Sanzo’s room. When I arrive, I knock on the door and call Sanzo’s name. There is a pause, then rustling, and then Sanzo opens the door with a sullen expression. He stands by the door, glaring, as I set the tray on the larger table and pull the chair out for him. Unbothered by the glare, I turn my attention to the brazier and refill it. It has gone out, of course, but he won’t need its heat for a while anyway. The nearly-untouched dinner goes back on the tray it came up on, and with it in hand I bow to Sanzo. He says nothing, just looks at me sourly and opens the door. I thank him quietly and leave.

           Goku intercepts me in the hallway. “Is he done with breakfast _already?_ ” He eyes the covered tray in my hands. 

           “Ah, no, this is from last night.” I shift the tray so that I can point behind me. “I brought breakfast to him just now.”

           He nods and hurries towards Sanzo’s room with a determined stride. Somehow, I don’t think I’d want to be in Sanzo’s shoes when Goku gets there. The garden with the oaks is empty, despite its proximity to the dining hall, so I find a stone bench almost hidden by some bushes and make sure Sanzo's dinner doesn't go to waste. I have no desire to earn another lecture on wasting food when I return the dishes, and cold scraps are more fitting for one such as me than fresh, hot food. I pause to consider the wedge of flatbread in my hand, generously loaded with beans and rice. The lavish dinner that was prepared for Sanzo hardly counts as 'scraps'. After a minute of internal debate, I shrug and continue eating. I had an early dinner yesterday; if I skip lunch today, that will even out the big meal I am eating now.

           The sun has not yet risen high enough to peer past the trees of this garden, and breakfast is shady and pleasant. I leave my corner briefly to bring the covered tray back to the kitchen, then tuck myself into the gap between two bushes and settle into the lotus position. When I look up again, I can't help but smile in amusement. The stone Buddha is directly across the garden from me, sitting in the lotus position. I rest my hands on my knees in conscious imitation of the statue's position, and let my mind become the still surface of a pool until the sun finally finds me.

           The kitchen helper from last night is there again when I diffidently peek into the kitchen. I nod when he asks if Sanzo wants a lunch tray, and thank him for his kindness. The sun has steamed the night's rain out of the ground, and the air is hot and muggy as I take the familiar route to Sanzo's room. I knock on the door, but there is no response and no sound from within the room at all. When I cautiously try the handle, it's unlocked. Sanzo isn't here, but neither are the breakfast dishes. I leave the lunch tray on the table, tidy the room, and leave to find him.

           It takes a few minutes and several hallways and gardens before I hear Sanzo's voice rising in a tone that manages to sound ominous and amused at the same time. A few turns later, I peek into a small brick courtyard of indeterminate function – the drain in the center and waist-high jugs hint at some sort of washing, but the rake propped in the corner is baffling – and find Sanzo facing down an older priest of high rank. It's hard to say who has cornered who; Sanzo has the other monk trapped in the tiny courtyard, but the smug look on the face of the older man implies that he is the victor in whatever discussion I have interrupted. That look gets more smug as he sees me in the entrance, and Sanzo breaks off whatever dire threat he was delivering in a quiet, intense tone.

           I bow formally as he turns to look at me in surprise and – well, perhaps not _dismay_ , but there is something about his posture that makes me think of a mother hen herding her chicks. “I've taken the liberty of leaving lunch in your room, Honored Sanzo.” Discomfort and something else war on his face. “Honored One,” I murmur to the other priest, making a second formal bow in his general direction before backing respectfully back around the corner. As I hurry away, I can hear Sanzo's voice rise again, adamantly declaring – or decrying – something I can't make out. Right Action, abstain from taking what was not given. Whatever they are discussing, it is not my business and not my place to overhear.

            When the afternoon rains start, I am already in the library reading. There is a row of window-seats nearly hidden in the back, mostly forgotten, overlooking some of the gardens and in the lee of the wind. The rain falls steadily behind me, but the only sound of it is a faint drumming as it hits the roof. Before me is an old treatise on the development and use of chi, focusing on its connection with the nervous system. The author was more educated than I am; wading through his vocabulary is slow going. After a while, the dinner bell rings in the distance, but the sound barely registers. The author has included an illustration of some obscure chakra points, along with a diagram that seems to be misrepresenting where certain nerve clusters are in the body. Between the cramped writing and trying to see the points in my own weak chi, the bell is dismissed with barely a ripple of acknowledgement.

            Just as I think I've sorted out the relation between the solar plexus and the chakra of the same name, a familiar robe moves into my field of vision. I blink a few times, scrambling to pull my thoughts back to the world around me. Sanzo's unreadable expression isn't helping. When he sees that I'm aware of his presence, his gaze shifts to just over my head and he looks out at the rain for several minutes. Once or twice, he glances down at me as though he were about to say something, then seemingly thinks better of it and goes back to staring out the window.

            “Sanzo?”

            He meets my eyes with a stricken look, then turns without a word and walks quickly out of sight behind the stacks. I watch him go, guilt tearing at me from both directions. On the one hand, I should have been aware of the time and seen to Sanzo's needs – taken him dinner if nothing else. On the other hand, however, it seems that my presence is still not welcome. _Is there anything I can do?_ A quick glance out the window tells me that the temple is settling in for the night. At this hour, there is nothing I could do for Sanzo except to give him space. I stick a scrap of ribbon between the pages and close the manuscript. If I get a tall enough candle, perhaps I can stave off the hallucinations.

            The lamps are still lit in the corridor that holds my cell. Unfortunately, they do not shed much light into the cell itself, even with the door open. I light my candle off of one of them, then seat myself at the tiny table and settle in for a long night of reading. Once again, the author's vocabulary and the subject matter draw me in, and the world around me ceases to exist until suddenly the candle gutters out in a pool of melted wax, plunging me into darkness.

            It is at that moment that I hear hoarse, wet breathing coming from the corner of the cell.

            My hands are already crawling along the back of the chair, reaching for the stone wall, when the walking horror steps out of the corner. Some small bit of my mind is thinking, S _o, this is what a week-old drowning victim looks like,_ but the rest of me is skirting mindless panic and edging closer to the door. A puddle of some fetid liquid creeps across the floor towards me, and I leap back with a smothered yelp.

            “You didn't want to know,” the bloated ruin of Sanzo's face states accusingly. “I thought you would have been more attentive. If it had been _Kanan,_ you would have made it your business...”

            Skin hangs in strips off one waterlogged hand as it reaches for me, but my searching hands have found the door's handle and I dash down the darkened hallway, running out my panic. Only when I reach the more public corridors do I stop to catch my breath. After a minute, I continue more sedately to Sanzo's room. The door is unlocked again, and I open it as quietly as possible, listening for any indication that I've woken him. The only sound is my still-harsh breathing. I sidle into the slightly cool room, closing and locking the door behind me, and prop myself up in the corner. It feels like an eternity before my eyes adjust to the darkness enough to see Sanzo sleeping in his bed, and before my breathing quiets enough that I can hear his. With that welcome sound cradling my shaken mind, I drop once again into dreams of blue-white clouds billowing on a blue sky, one that fades into a somehow comforting field of warm maroon. Those clouds gradually shift into swift-running streams, pulsing gently, surrounding a shuddering blue-white shape against that red background.

            It is my stomach that awakens me in the early morning. I stand carefully and stretch, glancing over at the bed to make sure that Sanzo hadn't woken up, and then slip out of the room.

            Food first, or bath? Judging from the sliver of sun on the horizon, I'd better get to the kitchens first, and then bathe while everyone else is eating. The kitchen helpers are already setting breakfast out; I load a plate for myself and one for Sanzo, grab a mug of tea, and juggle everything until I can carry it. Sanzo is still asleep when I return to his room, so I leave his breakfast on the table and retreat. Remembering last night's admonition, however, I thread my way through the gardens until I am able to lean against the wall under his window, and it is there that I break my fast. A chuckle slips out as I realize that I never ate dinner last night; this truly _is_ breaking a fast. Above me, I can hear Sanzo and Goku discussing something. Now that I know he's awake, it's safe for me to return my plate and visit the baths.

            Once I am clean and dressed, however, my thoughts stray to last night. The book is no doubt fine, but the table will likely need to be cleaned. My cell isn't nearly so intimidating with the brightly-lit hallway at my back, although I do check the floor for any stains left by Sanzo's drowned corpse. Luckily, the cooled puddle of wax peels off the surface of the table with minimal effort, and I dispose of it before taking up the book on chi and nerves. Returning to the window-seat I'd occupied the day before is an appealing thought.

            The librarian looks up as I enter his domain, and he waves me over with a smile of sour satisfaction. I wonder guiltily if I've done something wrong, or if he merely wants to share someone else's misfortunes with me.

            “Yes, Honored One?” I start to bow to him, but he waves it away.

            “Two things,” he says brusquely, hefting a worn volume and thrusting it at me. “First, you left this on the window seat last night. Never do that again, or I'll have you banned from the library.” Awkwardly, I juggle both bound volumes and open my mouth to protest. “Second,” he continues before I can even form an apology, “Sanzo left a message for you. He said to tell you that he's going to be in a meeting until late tonight, and not to wait up for him. But we all know you're not going to do that, so I'm giving you permission to take the manuscript out on loan. Guard it with your life.” He gives me a twisted smile at the last phrase, and the irony is not lost on me. I have no name. There is no record of my birth, and by that technicality I have no life.

            “I will,” I promise quietly, but the librarian has already turned away in silent dismissal. I bow awkwardly around the thick books and make my way out.


	12. Disjunction

            It is not until I reach my cell and set the books on the table that I look to see what it was the librarian wanted me to read. A minute spent scanning the first page, however, reveals only that the writing is too cramped and the subject matter too full of flowery, formal phrases for me to be able to make any sense of it. I skip forward a few pages, and discover that it is only the introduction that is written like that – but that the rest of the book is carefully penned in the archaic, formal alphabet used on official documents. Where the average man can pick up the simple sound-based alphabet with only moderate effort, being able to read these pictograms is the mark of years spent in scholarly devotion. I spent many hours of my childhood studying them, but never progressed past a very basic vocabulary. I skim the pages, picking out a word here and there, struggling to grasp what the text is about.

            The noon bell rings, jolting me out of my academic enthrallment. I have flipped through dozens of pages, and still only have the barest understanding of the text; it seems to be some law codex copied meticulously from an original that must have long since crumbled into dust. Unfortunately, this brings me no closer to understanding why the librarian placed it under my dubious protection. I stand and stretch, giving thought to the idea of lunch before dismissing it. Halfway to Sanzo's room, I stop. I was going there out of habit; I don't really need to eat yet and he won't be there. After a moment, I shrug and continue walking. The door is unlocked, and I perform the light cleaning duties I've been shouldering for the last few weeks. It doesn't appear that Sanzo has been here since breakfast, and I wonder how late this meeting is going to go.

            When I bring the dirty sheets to the laundry, there is a single acolyte working there. From the piles of laundry around him and the single tub set up, it's clear that he's the only one working here this afternoon. He doesn't even look up as I deposit my armload on the appropriate pile, just sighs in resignation and wrings out whatever it is that he's washing before dropping it into a basket full of similarly damp cloth. Still not looking up, he picks up the basket and scurries out into the small courtyard used for drying.

            Well, it's not as if my schedule is packed with things to do.

            When the acolyte finishes hanging the clean clothes and reluctantly trudges back in with the empty basket, I am seated at his tub, industriously scrubbing at a soiled beige robe. He looks between me and the half-full basket I've been depositing clean laundry into, saying nothing. When I judge the robe clean enough, I stand to take it to the wringer, but he bows before me and holds his hands out.

            “My apologies.” I bow back and give him the sodden mass of wool, internally wincing at how loud my voice is in here.

            The acolyte merely smiles and shakes his head, awkwardly holding the wet cloth with one hand and gesturing at his mouth with the other.

            “Vow of silence?” I ask quietly, and he nods with another smile.

            We get into a rhythm after a few more pieces of laundry; I wash them, he wrings and hangs them. The silence is comfortable and companionable. At one point, he puts his hand on my wrist as I reach for the next piece, and shakes his head when I look up. At my confused expression, he gestures at the courtyard, and I follow him out. The lines used to hang laundry from are all full. He ducks back into the laundry room, emerging with an empty basket, and offers it to me. I take it with a bow and follow him through the maze of hanging sheets and sheet-like robes as he tests each one to see if it's dry. When he finds one that's no longer damp, he removes the wooden clothespins and I set down the basket, and we fold it together. He smiles gratefully at me each time, and I wonder who left him here to do this by himself. If he's sworn a vow of silence, he could hardly protest being ordered to do laundry alone. Likewise, if some of his fellow acolytes had been working with him and walked out, he would not be able to call them back.

            The basket is full by the time we finish our inspection, and my silent companion takes it with a bow and hurries off with it. The darkening sky above the courtyard indicates that dinner will be served soon and, late meeting or not, I want to fetch Sanzo something to eat. It would be far too easy for him to just skip the meal if he does come back late, and he's likely to not have eaten lunch.

            The kitchen helper recognizes me and starts assembling a tray before I even ask. I nod and thank him when he holds up a teapot inquiringly, and he sets it on the coals to heat. It doesn't take long; I am halfway back to Sanzo's room before the dinner bell starts ringing. Sure enough, Sanzo is not yet back. I help myself to a small portion of the meal prepared for him, knowing he's not likely to eat even half of it, then re-cover everything and settle in to wait.

            Sanzo has not yet returned before the sun sets, and I find myself wishing I'd brought the archaic book with me. The knowledge that the contents of the book are there to be read if I could only interpret the glyphs nags at me like an itch that's just out of reach. It's likely that I would venture to my cell for the book – if I knew with certainty when Sanzo would be back. Goku was with him at breakfast, and I can trust that Goku would have made sure he ate. There are no such promises for lunch, and I don't entirely trust that Sanzo will eat if not reminded to do so. The memory of him sitting by the koi pond all day is all too clear in my mind.

            To occupy myself while I continue to wait, I settle into a lotus position on the floor. There is, thankfully, no draft from the window to set the lamp's flame flickering, and with my eyes closed, no outside stimuli distract me from my internal distractions. The nagging worries about Sanzo and the desire to know what that book is about keep me quite occupied in a sort of mental juggling; no sooner do I acknowledge one thought and put it aside than another leaps at me and must be dealt with. Even when I have those  settled, not knowing what time it is or wondering when Sanzo will return creep up on me and give me more thoughts to put aside.

            Wonder what the book is about. Put it aside. Worry that Sanzo didn't eat lunch. Put it aside. Wonder if I could slip down to my cell before he returns. Put it aside. Worry that he will return if I leave, then lock the door and not eat. Put it aside. Wonder what time it is. Put it aside. Door opening. Put it aside. Wonder what sort of meeting Sanzo is in. Put it aside. Chair scraping. Put it aside. Wonder when Sanzo will return. Put it aside. Blue sparks-

            Wait.

            I stop putting all thoughts and outside stimuli aside, and actively listen. The chair creaks. Cloth rustles. There is a dull thump as one of the dishes on the tray is moved, and a sigh. I spare a moment to chide myself for being so intent on waiting that I missed Sanzo's return, then open my eyes. Sanzo is sitting at the table, eyeing his lavish – but no doubt cold – dinner with distaste. He pours himself a cup of tea as I watch silently, then doctors it with some of the alcohol he keeps stashed under his formal robes. I wonder if the tea is still hot. It seems to be, given the way Sanzo sips at it, grimacing at each swallow. I lower my eyelids, making sure to keep my breathing even, and watch him carefully. My presence does not seem to be causing him discomfort, but I do not know if that will hold true once he sees that I am not so preoccupied. He prods at some of the food on the tray, shooting a suspicious look at me before nibbling cautiously. His shoulders have that hunched look, as though he were trying to escape notice. After a minute, he flicks another glance in my direction and stretches. From the scowl on his face, it seems that whatever meeting he was in, he did not enjoy it.

            Sanzo resumes his cautious nibbling, and I realize I have neatly trapped myself. I do not know if my presence will be as welcome if I am not sitting quietly off to the side. At the same time, however, pretending to be meditating while covertly watching Sanzo would be a deception. And yet...how does one tactfully indicate that he is no longer lost in a meditative trance without making it apparent that one has _not_ just exited said mental state?

            Fortunately, Sanzo solves the problem for me. With another grimace, he drains his cup and crawls into bed. Only the top of his head is visible when he finishes burrowing underneath the blanket.

            Well, that works.

            There is no point in me going anywhere else until Sanzo falls asleep; I close my eyes and resume meditating.  
  
            *********************************************************

_“Gonou?”_

_I blink and look around. Kanan is standing in front of our house, her favorite yellow dress clinging to her most appealingly in the wind that blows gently. She holds out one slender hand invitingly, the other brushing hair out of her face._

_“Come with me, Gonou?” She smiles, that shy, teasing smile that always makes me want to protect her while she wraps me around her little finger._

Something's not right. _I clench my hands into fists, feeling the nails bite into my palms. Behind her, the house trembles and looms ominously. I want to ask why she's there, why I'm there, but the words won't come._

_“Gonou? What's wrong?”_

_The house is bigger now, shifting in a way that makes my eyes water. My warning dies in my throat as wounds bloom on Kanan's chest, blood running over her breasts like grasping fingers._

_“Come with me, Gonou.” Her voice is no longer warm and inviting._

_The house grows as it crumbles, becoming the ruin of Hyakugan Maoh's keep. The blood from Kanan's wounds starts flowing up rather than down, forming arms to match those grasping hands. Her skin acquires a paleness all too familiar to me, and her eyes roll back in her head._

_“Gonou...”_

_The word –_ that is no longer my name! _\- seems pulled reluctantly from her throat as her blood starts outlining the shapes of muscular biceps. I bite my lip, tasting the tang of my own blood._

_“...come with me!” The voice that emerges from her throat is rough and deep  – not hers at all._

_Kanan's head lolls to one side limply; her body sags, those bloody arms holding her up. They have shoulders now. I squeeze my eyes shut, not wanting to see what head forms from her blood. The ground drops out from under me and I fall, every muscle tensed against the impact that never comes._

            With a start, I open my eyes and cast panicky glances around Sanzo's darkened room. The deep, slow breathing from the bed both calms and reassures me. At least I didn't wake Sanzo. Slowly, stiffly, I stand up and make my careful way to the door. I'll return in the morning and take care of the dishes then, but right now I need fresh air and light.

            The hallways in the temple – even the most-used ones – are all dark, but the moon and stars illuminate the temple gardens sufficiently. I wander through them without any particular destination, just enjoying the clean night air and the way the moonlight makes the wet leaves glitter with cool silver. The air is chilly, but walking keeps me warm and the thought of going indoors does not appeal to me – not with the memory of that nightmare lurking in the back of my mind. I walk the stiffness out of my legs, walk the nervous reaction out of my body, walk the nightmare out of my mind, walk until the eastern sky begins to lighten with the approaching dawn. Washing and dressing do not take enough time; a quick peek into the kitchen reveals that breakfast is not yet ready. Perhaps I can retrieve the leftovers from  Sanzo's room, and have breakfast for him before he wakes.

            The sun has just begun to peek over the horizon when I reach Sanzo's door, and I carefully slip inside. There is no motion from the bed, and as quietly as possible I load the still-laden dinner plates onto their tray. It is not until I take the tray in my hands and glance back at the bed that I notice its distinct lack of surly monk. A long moment goes by where part of me wants to panic, but never quite manages to get past the larger part of me that's certain he just stepped out for something and will surely be back. When he does return, he'll no doubt want breakfast. Dismissing the question of where Sanzo has gone, I take the tray and leave, closing the door behind me.

            Most of the lavish dinner the kitchen provided Sanzo is still on the tray, and most of that is still edible. In order to not waste food, I make my own meal from his leftovers and I wind up adding only a small amount to the compost heap. Judging from Sanzo's expression last night, a light breakfast would probably be safest. A mug of hot tea and some bread and fruit are all I take from the dining hall, snatched while the rest of the meal is brought out from the kitchen. The bell hasn't even begun to ring before I get back to Sanzo's room, but wherever he is, he hasn't returned yet. No doubt he'll be back soon; I'll just leave it here for him.

            As tempted as I am to return to my cell and wade through the book the librarian thrust into my care, I won't get very far unless I know more of what I'm looking at. The breakfast bell tolls as I make my way to the library, and I am able to duck into the stacks without being seen. It's not easy to find what I'm looking for: a manuscript with both alphabets used in such a way that I can learn what the symbols of the formal alphabet mean. I finally locate what seems to be the genealogical record of a small, bizarre family. There are many names, with relationships drawn between them and lines connecting names to names that seem to be within the family, since the second name always has the same symbol in it. That must be the family name, meaning that the pairs of names are married couples. Whoever's bloodline this is, the family doesn't seem to be very prolific; there are never more than five living members at any one time, and they like re-using names a lot. The names of the ones who married into the family are written in both alphabets, however, and the morning is devoured by my expanding vocabulary of formal symbols.

            About mid-way through the morning, the librarian peers at me from behind a shelf to my left. He shuffles the books a bit, either re-arranging or cleaning, then comes around the end of it and casually leans against the other side of the shelf.

            “It's meetings again today, if you were wondering.”

            I look up at him in confusion, my mind still on the symbols of the formal alphabet.

            “Genjo Sanzo. In meetings. Today.” The librarian's lips twitch in amusement.

            I duck my head in a little bow. “Ah, I was wondering. Thank you.”

            His lips twitch again. “I bet you were. Oh yes, I bet you were.” He begins to turn away, then thinks better of it. “The meetings are likely to go on for several days. Just so you know.” The librarian grins in a slightly predatory manner and walks off, leaving me blinking at his retreating back.

            Something's going on that I'm not aware of, that much is certain. Everything I've seen of the librarian indicates that he's equally unimpressed by everyone, and not likely to express satisfaction or pleasure unless it is at someone's expense. In this particular instance, it does not seem to be anything I'm doing wrong that amuses him, and I wonder whose discomfort it could be. With a shrug, I turn back to the genealogy before me. I don't know enough. If I get a chance to talk to Sanzo, I'll ask him.

            Now that I know Sanzo isn't going to be back until late, I don't bother with lunch. I tell myself that it's not _really_ self-abuse to skip meals, since my chi is more than happy to make up the lack, but even as the thought crosses my mind I know it's sophistry. I'm alternately starving my body and my chi, and I don't intend to stop any time soon. With a grim smile, I ignore the complaints of my body and resume studying this ancient but frail family tree for the symbols I can learn from it. Every few pages, there is a condensed re-statement of the illustrated pages before it, and while it is done in an over-flowery hand, it is written to be a literal translation of the formal script written just above it. Unfortunately, it doesn't provide more information than names and dates, and who succeeded who – and the family names, frustratingly, are only written in the formal alphabet. There's something about the phrasing of these summations that nags at me, but trying to keep all the new formal symbols straight does not give me the luxury of pondering it.

            After another hour or two of wading through formal symbols, I come to the last generation of this strange family. The most recent condensed entry lists one “river flow”- Kouryuu - with that double line connecting the name to what looks like the last son born to that family.

            Wait...

            I re-read it, but the words don't change. The dates given for what I'd thought was birth and marriage for Kouryuu correspond roughly with how old Sanzo is, and when he gained that name. The death-date for what I'd thought was Kouryuu's mother- or father-in-law is the same as the 'marriage' date. Suddenly, I realize that the word I'd taken for a family name must be the formal way of writing “Sanzo”, and that I've spent the better part of the day looking through the record of the highest priests in Buddhism. No wonder the “family” seemed small! What I'd thought were marriages are the dates when each Sanzo was given their formal name. In any case, there's nothing more for me to learn from this volume. I reverently place the book back on its shelf and leave the library.

            My cell, or Sanzo's room? How should I do this? With last night as a reference, I can presume that Sanzo won't be back until well past sunset. I'll want a book with me while I wait, either the one the librarian thrust at me or the treatise on youkai clans I had been reading. I'll also need to juggle the need for sleep with Sanzo's privacy, and avoiding my nightmares while keeping my word to not stay out all night. On top of that, I'll need to get dinner for Sanzo and arrange things so that I am both in his room waiting and awake whenever he gets back. It's almost certain that he did not eat breakfast or lunch, and he barely ate anything last night. I juggle and shuffle everything for several minutes before heading to my cell. It takes only a few seconds to retrieve the book in formal script and then I am gone again, glad to be away from that dark room. Sanzo's room is unlocked where I get there, and the bread and fruit I'd left for him is untouched. Somehow, none of this is a surprise. Late-afternoon sun seeps in around the shutters, lighting the room invitingly, and I am more than willing to accept that invitation. The book and my eyepiece go on the table by the mug of cold tea and abandoned breakfast, and I curl up in the corner that has served me so well in the past. It's the silent darkness that brings out the horrors; silent daylight should be fine. At the very least, it couldn't be any worse.

            Sleep comes easily, and I am tempted to ignore the dinner bell when it wakes me. Only the knowledge that I must provide something for Sanzo when he returns keeps me from returning to my slumber. I make the trip to the dining hall quickly, and thread my polite way through the throng of monks to the kitchen. The friendly kitchen helper is more than happy to put a pot of tea and a cup on a tray for me, and I add a modest serving of the most bland foods before leaving the company of the monks and priests. Once Sanzo's dinner is on the table, I resume my remarkably restful nap. The next time I wake, it is because my mind has decided to run me through Hyakugan Maoh's keep, with the severed body parts of my victims crawling or slithering relentlessly after me.

            The room, naturally, is dark.

            With my chi making my skin hypersensitive, each motion sets my scalp crawling as strands of hair brush against each other, and the rough cloth of my robe feels like a mat of brambles as it scrapes against my skin. The very irritation this excess chi causes makes it easier to focus, and within seconds I am angrily willing the tiny lightning bolts between my hands to light the wick between them. Once the lamp is lit, I sit at the table and reluctantly pull the stale bread and wilted fruit towards me. The line I have chosen to walk between sanity and partial starvation is a fine one, and I can see I will have to deliberately feed my chi at regular hours if I don't want it to drive me to distraction. It is a cold satisfaction that the dry bread, cold tea, and warm fruit are not an enjoyable meal. I eat grimly, forcing myself to swallow the fruit that no doubt is on the verge of going bad. This is what I deserve: not only cold leftovers, but food of questionable quality, one step above compost. I do my best to eat mindfully, enhancing the already unpleasant experience.

            When I am done, I allow myself to open the manuscript in the formal alphabet and start at the beginning, applying my new knowledge of the symbols and pictograms in attempts to decipher it. The word 'Sanzo' leaps out immediately. To my surprise, so do the names of some of the high priests mentioned in the lineage I'd waded through earlier in the day. Considering that this text was copied from an older copy, if not the original, I suppose it makes sense that the people mentioned would be from centuries ago. I still have no idea what the body of the text is about, however, and my chi is still higher than it should be. An hour or two passes before I hear Sanzo approach the door.

            It probably would not be a good idea to open the door before he gets to it. Instead, I pour the tea for him and set it by his supper. He gives me an inscrutable look as he stalks past the table, making a beeline for the drawer that hides his stash. I, in turn, take a good look at him. Whatever these meetings are about, the lines of his body practically scream tension, and the expression on his face as he sips at his alcohol greatly resembles the mixture of suffering and hope present in someone hung over. Sanzo's jaws clench between sips, and there are lines around his closed eyes. After a minute or two, some of the tension eases and he sits at the table, bottle still in hand. The plate in front of him barely gets a glance before his violet eyes rake over me again. I am reminded of the look he gave me when he came back sick: partially demanding to know why I am here, partially seeing me as a solution to something I am not aware of. Since my presence does not seem to be causing him pain, I meet his look with a calm, impersonal smile and wait.

            “What is that you're reading?” Sanzo gestures at the mysterious book in front of me. His voice is audibly hoarse, and I make a mental note to try to get some honey for his tea.

            “I'm not sure,” I reply, and am rewarded with a raised eyebrow.

            Sanzo says nothing, just chews on cold rice.

            “The librarian seems to have mistaken it for the manuscript I was reading the other day,” I offer carefully, still not sure why I have been entrusted with this volume. “He gave me permission to borrow it, but I am not quite able to read the formal alphabet.”

            Sanzo sips at his tea and gestures at me to turn the book around so he can read it. I do so, and he frowns in concentration as he peers at it, taking bites of bread or rice now and then.

            “Leave it here,” he says, half command and half question. “I want to look at it.”

            “Ah, of course. I'll have plenty of time to examine it tomorrow.” Sanzo shoots me a near-glare at that, but says nothing. So, he _will_ be in meetings again tomorrow. “Should I bother with breakfast?”

            The disgruntled snort I get in response is answer enough. I stand and bow, although Sanzo does not look up to see, and let myself out.

            The gardens are cool and damp from the rain, but the moon gives enough light to see by. I have the nagging feeling that Sanzo will be up for a few more hours, studying that book. If he rises before dawn again for those meetings, he will be functioning on almost no sleep. With all the gardens this temple has, one of them must be an herb garden – and that will be certain to have something in it that I can add to Sanzo's tea to help him sleep. I won't be able to harvest anything in the dark, of course. The moonlight isn't _that_ bright. But I can learn the location of the correct garden and come back in the daylight. A minute spent studying the stars tells me that it's about an hour or two before midnight. I can't sleep outside; it's too wet. I have no desire to interrupt what little sleep Sanzo may get tonight, and I can't sleep in my cell. I can, however, read by candlelight until Sanzo is up and gone – and if I get tired, I can nap in his room. My lips curve into an amused smile as a memory from my childhood years claws its way to the surface of my mind: one of the Sisters shepherding small children back to the dormitory for their afternoon nap. I indulge myself in a moment of fantasy, imagining my current self joining the children and arguing with the faceless nun. _'I know, I'm too old for afternoon naps. But Sister, I can't sleep at night! I have horrible nightmares of the people I killed...'_

            The moment of amusement fades. I wasn't fond of them, and they – try as they might – weren't fond of me. They would never understand why I did what I did, and I can't imagine trying to explain it to them. For all their constant preaching about sin and repentance, would they even understand what I'm doing now? Would they turn away from me in horror at the sins I've committed, or actually practice what they preach and praise my efforts towards penance for my crimes? Another smile, a bitter one, flits across my face. The way I've chosen to live has much in common with the self-sacrifice the Sisters dedicate their lives to. I know all too well what I did; I wonder what it is that _they're_ atoning for.

            The temple's herb garden presents itself, thankfully, and I wrench my thoughts out of the bitter spiral they were threatening to degrade into. Each patch of plants is well-tended, with clear paths between them, and small lettered signs –  no doubt inform the onlooker as to which plot is which plant. In the moonlight, however, I can't make out anything beyond the fact that there is writing on each white-painted stick. It doesn't take long to figure out where I am in relation to the temple's various buildings and pick my way towards one, treading carefully on the little paths. I'll come back after breakfast.

            The lamps in the hallways are dying by the time I reach the store room, but there is flame enough to light my candle. Armed against the darkness, I brave the quiet corridors of the acolytes and enter my cell. Despite myself, I have to check each corner in the small room to make sure nothing lurks in wait for me, but my candle's flame wards off the illusions. The book on youkai clans waits for me on the little table, and the night passes quietly as I learn about the customs and cultures of areas I'm not likely to ever visit. I avoid the entries on the Dark Crow and Centipede clans, however. The book is large enough and detailed enough that I can focus on clans to the north and west and avoid anything remotely local to Chang An.

            When the candle starts to gutter, I take the stub and venture out into the hallways again. The lamps have long since gone out, but the grey light outside indicates that dawn is not far off. I wash and dress quickly, then return to my cell just long enough to grab the book on youkai clans and return it to the library. A quick breakfast snatched before the bell rings, and I have plenty of time to wander the herb garden without fear that anyone will take offense to my presence. There are a few herbs that would serve my purpose, but only two of them would acceptable in a cup of hot tea. I carefully pluck a few leaves and head to Sanzo's room which is, of course, empty. The old manuscript is on the table –  closed, giving me no hint at what Sanzo found in it – and his bed does not look slept in. Well, that's no more than I expected. It doesn't take much to make the bed again, and then I spread my carefully-selected leaves on the covers to dry a bit.

            The morning passes quietly. Despite my improved vocabulary for the pictographic formal alphabet, I am still not able to make out what the various Sanzos and priests are discussing. There are too many symbols I am not familiar with. When lunchtime rolls around, I instead hunt through the library for texts that will help me learn the formal alphabet. Around mid-afternoon, I retire to Sanzo's room and sleep until the dinner bell wakes me. Considering how little Sanzo and I eat, what looks like a normal serving actually feeds us both. I beg honey for the tea from my friend in the kitchen, citing the 'important meetings' Sanzo is in, and then retreat again with the pot of tea, mug with honey, and plate with dinner. The leaves I picked out have dried somewhat, and I add them to the pot to steep before judiciously feeding myself to stave off an excess of chi. With dusk impending, I light the lamp before resuming my nap. I have no desire to be woken by nightmares if I can stave them off with some light.

            When I wake up again, Sanzo still has not returned. I begin working my way through the start of the formal text again, gleaning a bit more meaning from it. Unsurprisingly, I can tell that the priests in it are discussing some aspect of Buddhism, but there are still too many unknown words. Sanzo staggers in after another hour or so, exhausted but with a faint expression of grim satisfaction. The meeting must have gone well. He actually eats with something resembling appetite, and raises his eyebrows at the taste of the tea but says nothing. When he has finished eating and the herbs have begun to make him blink sleepily, I ask if he will want breakfast in the morning. He grimaces and rasps out, “Not yet,” then shakes his head groggily and climbs into bed. I leave the book there in case he wants to peruse it further, then leave him to sleep.

            The night passes easily, between the discovery of an entire garden full of night-blooming plants and meditation by candlelight in a lesser hall. When dawn arrives, I follow yesterday's routine and end the day by reading until Sanzo returns. One night's sleep doesn't seem to have helped much; he is developing circles under his eyes. He goes straight for his stash of alcohol again, liberally dosing his tea on top of the honey and herbs. I smother a wince; that can't be a good mix of flavors. He drinks it grimly, scowling into his cup for a minute or two before reluctantly eating some of the dinner set before him. Again I ask quietly if I should bring him breakfast, and he gives me a long, measuring look before shaking his head slowly. Given how hoarse he has been since starting these meetings, I don't press the issue. The last I see of him as I close the door behind me are his eyes, watching me intently.

            The next several hours pass uneventfully. Meditation in the night-blooming garden is relaxing despite the cold damp, and I spend several minutes wondering if I could find a way to make my living doing some job that would require me to be up all night and sleep during the day. A night guard somewhere, perhaps. But then again, nights are only safe for me if the darkness is not silent. I would not like to be stuck in one place all night, at the mercy of whatever imagined horrors cared to keep me company. And, of course, now that I have thought of them, I cannot put them from my mind. My meditation slips from 'acknowledge and put aside' into the more frantic 'shove aside', and from there I find myself pushing away the rotting bodies of my victims.

            Suddenly I am on my back on a lavish bed. Hyakugan Maoh is there, with my knife in his heart, throttling me slowly while his barbed member scrapes against the scar on my stomach. Out of the corners of my eyes I can see the sun-drenched field of flowers the bed sits in the center of, and Kanan off to one side, singing her song as she weaves the flowers into a chain. She takes no notice of us, and Hyakugan Maoh takes no notice of her until the chain of flowers suddenly writhes to life and wraps itself around her wrists, hauling her to her feet. The dead youkai lord looks up as her song cuts off abruptly, then he releases me with a lewd grin. All I can do is gasp for breath and watch in horror as he climbs to his feet, that monstrous member glistening at the tip, and stalks eagerly towards the dangling form of my beloved. Before he can lay clawed hands on her, sunlight in my eyes wakes me up and I sit up in the garden, breathing heavily, until I have calmed down enough to walk without trembling.

            After breakfast, I throw myself wholeheartedly into searching out more of the formal alphabet, using the academic exercise to eradicate the remnants of that horrible nightmare. I don't think I'll be visiting the night-blooming garden anytime soon. I am able to find a bound sheaf of legal documents with accompanying transcription, and apply myself to memorizing the legal terms. Some of the symbols look familiar, and the idea that I might finally learn the contents of that manuscript excites me. Lunch comes and goes unnoticed, and only when the evening bell tolls do I tear myself away from my work.

            Calmly fetching dinner and tea takes an act of sustained concentration; I want to snatch and run, and each step is unhurried only through sheer willpower. When I finally reach Sanzo's room, I eagerly flip to the first page of formal writing and absently chew on a wedge of flatbread. I run one finger under the first row of characters, trying to identify each one and match it with a word or concept. Most of them, I can read now – but the first paragraph just describes on what date and what place the Most Honored Sanzo and these three priests gathered, and gets rather intricate with the praise and description. I don't mind; the more I read in the formal alphabet, the easier it is to read. Slowly, the content of the text takes a vague shape. The Sanzo and the priests are discussing legal matters, but there are too many missing words. I'm not able to comprehend the significance of what they're talking about.

            I'm still only a few pages in when the door opens with a bang, then slams shut behind Sanzo. My heart jumps into my throat, pulse racing, and I'm afraid to move. The look on his face... He is angry, very angry, and his eyes bore into me. The lines of exhaustion on his face emphasize his look of absolute determination and he just stands there, blocking the door.

            “I hurt you, didn't I.” Sanzo's voice is hard, and it's not a question.

            I open my mouth to protest, but the look in his eyes changes to the one he gave me when he saw that he’d bruised my shoulder, and I realize that he's angry at himself, not me.

            _~There wouldn't be anything preventing you from rejoining your_ precious _Kanan.~_

Right Speech. Do not tell a falsehood. I swallow, torn between Right Speech and not wanting to cause Sanzo any pain –  but he just looks at me, waiting for an answer, and I can see that he’s already in pain.

            “Yes,” I say quietly, and Sanzo nods grimly.

            “I want to apologize.” He glares at me as I open my mouth to protest again, and my words die before they are born. _“Really_ apologize.”

            “It wasn't your fault.” He was sick, he didn’t know what he was saying.

            A haunted look crosses his face briefly. “I _know_ what I said, and I knew what it meant.”

           I can’t quite keep myself from starting; it seems that Sanzo has not only heard my thoughts, but refuted the unvoiced argument. At my flinch, he breaks eye contact and some of the anger drains out of him as he stares at the floor. I am reminded of the way he stared into the lily pond when he first told me that if he had something to drink, he'd eat.

           “I don't want to see you hurt like this anymore,” he mutters, sounding disgusted with himself.

_But I deserve…_ I cut the thought short. “Sanzo...” He looks up at me, guiltily, and I am mildly surprised by how steady my voice is. “I would gladly suffer any hurt, if it means that you would be spared it.”

            “I don't want anyone to be hurt,” he says with quiet vehemence. “Especially not on my account.”

            _~I’ve already gone this far...made myself responsible for what happens to you.~_

I bow my head in acknowledgement; there is nothing I can say to that. I don’t want him to be hurt on my account, either.

            “Hakkai.” Sanzo pauses, and I look up at the unfamiliar word. “Take care of yourself,” he says, somewhere between pleading and commanding.

            I have already vowed to do whatever I could to not cause trouble for Sanzo; I start to tell him this when the almost-vulnerable tone of voice and the unfamiliar word connect and combine into an idea that leaves me gaping like a fish out of water.

            “Is...” I swallow and try to gather my thoughts, hope blooming unexpectedly. “Is that...my name?”

            He nods, and I am briefly overwhelmed by joy so strong that if it were light, it would have blinded me. I haven’t given much thought to my lack of name, aside from the occasional nightmare, and I am unprepared for the elation that now fills me at the prospect of having an identity again.

            Sanzo gives me a brief smile of tired satisfaction. “It’s late,” he says, moving to the table and sitting heavily. “See you for breakfast?”

            I nod and beam at him, giving a little bow before leaving in a daze. The halls are still lit and I wander down them in a fog of euphoria – not even the dark interior of my cell shakes it from my mind. I put my eyepiece on the table and let the door shut before lying down on my cot.

            “Hakkai,” I whisper, savoring the shape of the word in my mouth and listening to the echo. Hakkai. My name.

            Sleep cradles me gently, and my name fills me with joy. I don’t dream.


	13. Admonishment

            When I wake up, I feel more refreshed than just a night of peaceful sleep can account for. I have a name. I wash mindfully, relishing the feel of the rough sponge and cold water against my skin. Each sensation just reaffirms that I am alive.

            I have a name.

            It's clear now that this must have been what Sanzo was occupied with for the last five days. Each step to the kitchen is taken mindfully, the impact of heel and force of the toes working in smooth rhythm. I realize that there is a primal joy in everything being as it should be, whether the experience is good, bad, or indifferent. It can only be experienced if one accepts everything for what it is and does not judge it. This secret song of life is surely nirvana; neither wanting nor not-wanting, neither pleasure nor pain, neither good nor bad. It simply is. With this feeling of universal harmony filling me, the simple journey from baths to kitchen becomes the most satisfying few minutes I have ever experienced. Everything, from the coarse cloth against my skin and the clean morning breeze to the cool dimness of the dining hall and the aloof disdain of the monks and priests, is exactly how it should be. If my smile is a bit more friendly and less impersonal as I collect breakfast and a tray, well, it's still friendly and there's nothing wrong with that.

            The glorious sensation of being one with the universe fades quickly, but its passing does not leave me disappointed. This, too, is how it should be – everything ending in its own time, each moment shining all the brighter because it will not last. Sanzo still looks worn out when he opens the door, but with none of the awkwardness and pain that my presence had caused him since the day of his hangover. There is a kind of relief behind his mask of surliness, as though a great wrong has been set right again. Considering how much he has made himself responsible for my fate, I can guess what might be behind the relief. I smile contentedly as we eat, and several times his lips twitch as though he were trying not to smile, or perhaps repressing a smirk.

            There is a knock at the door as I collect the remains of our meal and pile them onto the tray. Sanzo speaks briefly with the messenger, then flourishes a sheet of parchment and lays it on the table.

            “Bastard moves quick when he wants to,” he growls, not quite able to keep the note of satisfaction from his voice.

            Leaving the dishes where they are, I lean over the page and begin translating the formal characters that form a stately design on the page. Having studied that folio of formal documents helps; I am able to make sense of nearly every pictogram. It is an official pronouncement of identity, such as would be kept on record at a temple for christened births and the formal re-naming of new Sanzo priests. It has been signed by the High Abbot, although I can’t make out what the symbols of his name translate to. There is another set of symbols I don’t entirely understand: my new name. The middle symbol, I recognize. I’ve seen it many times in the phrase “Eightfold Path”. But the ones on either side are ones I haven’t seen, and with a sheepish smile I straighten and turn to Sanzo.

            “Ah, I’m afraid my understanding of the formal characters isn’t as good as I’d hoped.  Could you tell me what these mean?” I point to the characters of my name, and Sanzo leans over to see which ones I need translated.

            There is a moment of silence, which suddenly turns ominous. Sanzo is bent over the parchment, but considering my urge to edge away from him, I am certain that he is giving it the glare Goku received just before Sanzo left at the start of the rainy season. I don’t want to die before I find out what my name means. Sanzo straightens abruptly and pulls his gun out of one sleeve.

            “I’ll be right back,” he snarls, and heads for the door. I can hear him mutter something about a scribe, and killing, and then the door shuts behind him.

            After a few minutes, I can faintly hear some gunshots and Sanzo’s angry voice. I toy with the idea of taking the dishes back to the kitchen, but I wouldn’t want Sanzo to have to hunt me down when he returns. Even aside from my oath to not cause him trouble, I don’t want to do anything that would get me on the receiving end of his temper. As it turns out, it’s only a few minutes before Sanzo storms back in, still angrier than he was at himself last night.

            He paces around the room for a minute, possibly trying to calm down. If this is the case, however, it doesn’t work. He begins muttering about someone backstabbing me, and taking his words out of context, and being on guard for every little thing. Each phrase is a little louder than the one before it, and soon I am treated to an angry rant more thorough and descriptive than anything I’ve ever heard before. Once the initial shock fades – I never expected to hear a Sanzo priest use such colorful language about the upper priesthood of a temple – I am quite impressed with the creative phrases and descriptions that roll off his tongue like a blasphemous sutra. The depths of Sanzo’s dislike of the other priests goes far beyond anything I would ever have imagined, and I understand now why he was so certain I wouldn’t be a stain on his reputation.

            Finally, Sanzo winds down and sits at the table across from me, massaging his temples. “This isn’t what I intended,” he says with a grimace.

            “Ah, I gathered not, considering.” Sanzo just scowls at the offending parchment again. “Perhaps you could show me what you _did_ intend?”

            Sanzo twists around and grabs pen and paper from his desk, drawing three pictograms before sliding the scrap paper over to me. “These three sound roughly the same. This one,” he says, pointing to the top character, “is the one I’d intended. It means reform, renewal, or rebirth.”

            Eightfold rebirth – rebirth through the Eightfold Path. My hands clench beneath the table, digging into the muscles of my legs. I’m not worthy of such a noble name.

            Sanzo points to the middle symbol. “I thought they might use this one; it means repentance.”

            He glances at me, and I nod. Repentance through the Eightfold Path – still very fitting and something I would be comfortable with. Then he points to the third character, the one on my naming certificate.

            “I’d forgotten about this one. I didn’t think they would be so petty as to backstab you like this.” He glares at the symbol as though it personally had offended him. “I should have known better. It means admonishment, warning, and punishment.”

            Punishment in the form of the Eightfold Path. Exactly what my sentence was, and the very thing I’ve been struggling to shape my new life into.

            “It’s alright.” My voice is quiet. “It still fits.” Sanzo shifts his glare to meet my calm gaze, and gives a long-suffering sigh. “I know it’s not what you intended, and the gesture honors me much more than I deserve. But…” I look down at my hands, still clenched around the unbleached wool covering my legs. “I can never forget the actions that brought me here, lest they be repeated.”

            “Keeping it in memory doesn’t mean hanging a stone around your neck over it forever,” Sanzo says sourly.

             I don’t look up; I don’t want to see what’s in Sanzo’s eyes. “This chain of words I wear willingly.” I can’t help but remember the night I promised. I’m not the only one hanging myself with the ropes of my past, but it’s not my place to say anything about how Sanzo has chosen to live his life.

            _~The theory is that by giving you a new name, you are being given the chance to be something else.~_

            Some day, maybe, I will feel that I have truly been reborn. Right now, I am still repenting, still punishing myself. I glance at Sanzo, but he is scowling at the three characters on the scrap paper. He looks up as I unclench my hands and lay them on the table.

            “Perhaps,” I say in perfect Right Speech, “in time, the name will hold a different meaning for me.” My normally bland smile holds a touch of amusement as I remember the impressive display of creative description. “Think of it as an excuse to harass them for me someday.”

            Sanzo just snorts and glares at the sheet of paper again.

            “I’m going to bring the dishes back,” I say calmly. Sanzo gives a brief nod. “Shall I meet you here with lunch?”

            “No,” he says, and I can hear the lingering tension in his voice. “I’m going into town; I’ll get something there. I won’t be back until late. You can stay in here if you want, but be in your cell at sunrise.” He fixes me with a darkly amused look as I open my mouth to protest. “They’ll come for you at sunrise to bring you before the High Abbot so he can give you your name.” The amused look turns into a smug one at having beaten the High Abbot to it. “Obviously, don’t let them know that you already know it.”

            “Ah, of course.” I bow slightly and pick up the breakfast tray.

            “Hey.” Sanzo’s voice, carefully surly once again, stops me at the door. “Have you thought about what you’re going to do once they let you out of here?”

            “Ah, no, I hadn’t.” My fingers tighten on the tray and I don’t look back, lest he see how badly that question has shaken me.

            “Might want to think about that,” he says, and I nod before letting myself out.  
  
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             The library, normally a good place to lose myself for a few hours, is not where I find myself going. With the prospect of being “released” from the temple looming over me, my feet take me to the thorny alcove that has sheltered me so many times. The air is heavy and still, heat and humidity building up in preparation for the cloudburst yet to come. The stone Buddha smiles calmly, undisturbed by the impending precipitation. My thoughts do not fare nearly as well. To Sanzo, the temple is a prison – something to be endured. Among other things, his rant against the temple as a whole taught me that. Once I am formally given my name, he will likely pack up and leave with Goku. But while it is a prison to him, it is a refuge to me. I can afford to be honest in the privacy of my own mind; I am hiding here, seeking safety in a simple life where there is little to distract me from my penance.

            Reverently, I kneel before the stone Buddha and mindfully examine my thoughts and feelings. It takes a long time before the swirl and tangle are sorted out. When I have finally managed to achieve stillness, two facts emerge from the silent pool of my mind.  First, my desire to stay here and hide is just that – a desire. Second, while I have begun to atone for failing Kanan, I have done nothing to begin to atone for my sin of murder. I still have no ideas as to what I could do to atone for such sins, but I am not likely to find my answer while shut away from the world. My vows dictate that my wants are forfeit. As much as I wish it were not so – indeed, because of it – my decision has been made for me. When I am released with my new name, I must leave the temple.

            I can feel my lips form a bitter, lopsided smile. It is simplicity itself to renounce the comforts of society when they are not present. Living an equally austere lifestyle while such comforts are readily accessible is much more difficult. The Second Noble Truth points out that suffering is caused by desire, and I still deserve to suffer even if that suffering is not physical injury.

            The rain comes, big fat drops that soak me to the skin as I kneel there admiring how neatly my path has been laid before me. I let the gentle pummeling drown out the emotions that threaten to rise within me like a cloud of carrion flies as I contemplate life outside the temple, but no answers come to me. By the time the dinner bell rings, I am starting to shiver in the now-cold rain, my chi is pulsing faintly underneath my skin, and I know that I must leave the temple but have no idea what else to do with myself. Well, no idea past the immediate need for food. Stiffly, I get to my feet and stifle a wince as my legs scream their complaint. It's not violently self-inflicted pain, but it is still pain and I walk slowly so as to be more mindful of it. Mindfulness forms a shell around me as I collect my frugal dinner, and the few sharp, almost angry looks that get thrown my way impact harmlessly against this shell of mindful acceptance. I find a seat in a corner and eat mindfully.

            Sanzo said they would come for me at dawn. So I must not only be in my cell before sunrise, but I must be clean and dressed. Where am I going to spend the night? The trickle of water creeping away from me reminds me that I am still soaked, and that I probably should not be wet when they come for me. That means I will have to be awake far enough beforehand that I can bathe and let my hair dry, and there is no point in changing into a dry robe only to change again when I bathe. Since I'm already wet, I may as well find some corner outside and meditate further on what it is I'll be doing with my life, then get ready before dawn and go to my cell. If I were to follow my earlier logic, I should go to my cell simply because I desire to spend as little time there as possible. I know what the result of that action will be, however, and sending myself into a mindless, gibbering panic would be counter-productive –  not to mention worrying Sanzo.

            When I have finished eating, I slip back into the gardens in search of someplace where I can meditate in relative seclusion and protection from the rain. The rain is lightening up as the sky runs out of ammunition, but it will be dark soon and any wet surface will be that much colder. As the sun nears the horizon, I come across a path defined by brick walls that reach over my head. There are niches built into the wall every so often, with carved Buddha statues sitting in them. One of them must have been broken at some point, because there is an empty niche. The design of the wall is such that the niches are dry, and the Buddha statues life-sized. I can't resist; it's too perfect.

            It takes little effort to lever myself into the empty niche, and only a little bit of fumbling to arrange myself into the lotus position, mimicking the statue across from me. I can see the sky clearly enough beyond the other wall; I will be able to judge the hour without much difficulty. And with the brick wall protecting me from the wind, I almost feel warm. Satisfied with my choice, I turn my attention inward and contemplate the unanswered questions of what I'm going do with myself and how I'm going to atone for the lives I ended.  
  
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             When I judge it to be close to dawn, I reluctantly climb down from my perch. Hours of contemplation have resulted only in half-formed ideas becoming tangled with fear and guilt and worthlessness; I am no closer to an answer than I was this morning. The tangle of emotion gnaws at me as I wash, trying to be mindful of the sensations. If I can focus enough on what's going on outside, perhaps that will silence what's going on inside. It doesn't help. The problem worries at me as I attempt to finger-comb my hair, making me irritable with the tangles. I wish for a comb, or better yet, a razor. No wonder monks shave their heads. I pause for a moment as that thought filters through the maze of wanting and not-wanting, vows and embracing hardships. No, I will not shave my head. I will not take the easy path and simply avoid the whole issue. Idly, I smooth my hair away from my left ear and walk mindfully to my cell, trying not to feel like I am walking to my  doom. It won't be too long before they come for me; I can deal with this. I put one hand on the heavy wood of the door and push, stepping into my cell with a boldness I do not feel.

            “Where've you been?”

            The voice is raspy, somewhere between a growl and a wheeze. I can see a pale figure in the corner, slouched in the chair, and smell cigarette smoke. As I'm trying to figure out if it's really Sanzo or just his corpse, the figure raises one awkward hand to his face and takes a drag. The dim glow reveals long streaks of blood on both face and arm, and I can see that the wrist has been slashed open. No wonder the cigarette is being held so awkwardly. The corpse tilts his head to the side and blows the smoke out, blood matting his hair so completely that there is no sign of any other color. My eyes are adjusting to the darkness of my cell slowly, and my brain is realizing with equal speed that something's wrong. Sanzo hasn't accused me of failing him yet, and I doubt my subconscious is doing it out of kindness.

            The figure turns his blood-streaked face back to me. “I guess you just forgot about me,” he says in a voice filled with hopeless resignation. “Now that you have a name again.”

            He takes another drag on the cigarette, and I can make out more detail now. I want to run, to deny the hallucinatory accusation. But I can't.

            “No,” I say slowly as the guilt sinks its claws into my chest. I can feel my vows constrict around me, forcing the words from my throat. “I haven't forgotten you, Gojyo.”

            Gojyo's corpse says nothing, just looks at me with eyes that admonish me for all my failures and sins, reflecting the silent accusation of my heart. I know now what it is that I must do when I am released from the temple.

            Behind me, the door to my cell creaks open and the light from a lamp banishes the specter of Gojyo. I turn calmly, unsurprised by the formal group in the hall.

            “Nameless One, you have been summoned.”

            The messenger with the lamp looks vaguely disappointed that I am unfazed, and the guards behind him just look disgruntled to be awake at such an hour. I bow smoothly, formally, and take my place between them.

            The halls, unsurprisingly, are empty as we make our way through them. For the third time, the doors of the Great Hall open before me and I again make my way down the aisle behind the messenger. The guards stop at the door with sighs of relief. Each cushion is occupied by a monk or priest, just as it was the day I was sentenced, with the High Abbot on the low dais before the Buddha and Sanzo looking both irritated and smug.

            “The Nameless One approaches,” announces the messenger, giving a low bow before scuttling backwards down the aisle, leaving me standing alone before the High Abbot.

            I give a formal bow as well, sinking gracefully to my knees and keeping my eyes respectfully lowered. The High Abbot doesn't look any happier about being awake than the guards did.

            “Your actions have not gone unnoticed,” the High Abbot declares sternly, ambiguous words open to interpretation. “The most honored Genjo Sanzo has decided that you are deserving of rebirth. Truly, you must have worked hard to atone for your sins for him to have judged you fit for rebirth so quickly.”

            As much as he's trying to keep it subtle, I can hear the jabs of sarcasm and the barbs aimed either at me, or Sanzo, or both. I keep my head lowered in a properly respectful posture and say nothing.

            “To fit your new life,” he continues, snide arrogance hidden under the guise of magnanimity, “you have been given the name of Cho Hakkai.” He doesn't mention who gave it to me or what it means, of course. “I certainly hope you continue to act in a way befitting your new name.” Again, the ambiguous words cover up the malicious undertone.

            “Thank you, Honored One. I will certainly try.” The memory of Gojyo's dead eyes hangs before me, keeping my words sincere not only to what the High Abbot said, but what he meant. I can feel Sanzo's glare, but whether it is for me or for the High Abbot, I don't know – and I don't look up to find out.

            “Go then, with the blessing of this temple.” His sincerity is unfeigned here; it's not much of a stretch to guess that he wants me gone.

            I bow again from my kneeling position. Behind me, the rustling of many robes indicates that the other priests are taking their leave of the Hall. Through my eyelashes, I can see the High Abbot stand and walk away in obvious dismissal. I hold my bow until the rustling and footsteps fade away, then cautiously look up. Sanzo is sitting at ease on his cushion, looking very much like he wants to light a cigarette.

             “Well, that could have gone worse.” He stands up, both hands in his sleeves, and starts walking back down the aisle towards the doors. “You coming?”

            The guards are nowhere to be seen when we leave the Great Hall, of course. We walk in silence for a few minutes, exiting the building as soon as possible and wandering through the temple gardens. At one abandoned cul-de-sac with stone benches in danger of being enveloped by flowering bushes, Sanzo stops and looks around. Seeing no one, he sits on one bench and pulls out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter and waves me to the other bench as he lights up in obvious relief. I fold my hands in my lap and look at them, trying not to see Gojyo's corpse as Sanzo turns his head and blows the smoke out.

            “So, figured out what you want to do?” His voice is a shade too casual.

            I glance at him, but he's examining the bush next to him in a show of forced carelessness. It wasn't that long ago that I would have been lost, wondering why he cared what I was going to do with myself – if I'd even picked up that he was concerned in the first place. Now, it's all too easy to imagine how I would feel in the same position. If I had met a man who had lost the only thing he cared about, and done my best to keep him from killing himself, I would want him to find a place in the world – something to keep him busy, something to give meaning to his life again. The image of myself as a bird with a broken wing comes to mind, with Sanzo as the anxious surrogate mother trying to encourage me to trust my healed wing and try to fly again.

            “Ah, I thought I'd visit Gojyo.” Not that I had any choice, once his corpse accused me of forgetting him.

            Sanzo makes a sound suspiciously like a cough, giving the bush a very hard look as though it had done something unexpected. He looks at me slyly out of the corners of his eyes, taking a deep drag to cover what may have been the look of the cat that got the canary. For a long moment he says nothing, just thoughtfully smoking his cigarette.

            “I'm sure he'll be surprised to see you,” Sanzo says. There's something more that he's not telling me, but he doesn't say anything else.

            When the cigarette is down to the filter, Sanzo grinds it into the stone bench and stands up. He indicates with a jerk of his head that I should follow him, and again we wind our way through the gardens. This time, however, he leads me to the main gate and down into the city of Chang An. The guards ignore us. As we walk down the steps, I can hear the morning bell start tolling.

            There are already a good number of people out and about. Sanzo leads me through the city in a path as winding as the one we took through the gardens, eventually ducking through the door into what must be his favorite seedy bar. As with the Great Hall, it is the third time I have been here. Sanzo weaves through the tables confidently towards the bar in the back; by the time I have caught up to him, the bartender has vanished behind the counter and reappeared with a wrapped bundle which, at Sanzo’s nod towards me, he slides across the bar to me. I have just enough time to pick it up and thank the bartender before Sanzo is again weaving his way between the tables. He makes it to the door long before I do, lighting another cigarette before pushing out into the street again.

            “Your clothes were ruined,” Sanzo says, nodding at the paper-wrapped bundle in my arms. “So you can have those.”

            He doesn’t say anything else, and we walk through a maze of streets in silence until we come to an intersection of two broad avenues.

            “The village I found you in is that way,” he says, pointing down one of the streets. “It’s about two days’ walk from here, but keep to the road and you’ll be fine. There should be enough in there to keep you from starving.” His lips curl around the butt of the cigarette; it wouldn’t take much to keep me from starving with how I eat, and we both know it.

            I clutch the package to my chest and bow. “Thank you.” The words are inadequate, but there is nothing else to say.

            Sanzo just drops his cigarette butt and turns away. “You know where to find me when you get back.” His tone makes it a forgone conclusion that I will return.

            There is nothing I could say to that; even if there was, Sanzo starts to walk away and within a few steps the morning bustle swallows him. I turn in the direction Sanzo indicated, and begin walking.


	14. Eightfold Renewal

Chang An is several hours behind me when the road comes to a patch of trees thick enough to provide privacy. I didn't really get much sleep last night, and given my track record of sleeping inside by myself, I don't feel at stopping at an inn would be a good idea. I leave the road and push through the cool, green shade until I find a small clearing of grass warmed by mid-day sun. For once, it hasn’t rained today, and the grass is nice and dry. My first order of business is to investigate the paper-wrapped package Sanzo gave me. The clothes inside are very similar to the ones I was wearing the night Sanzo knocked on Gojyo's door: light yellow shirt, brown pants, and a green button-up shirt. My shoes have been cleaned and added to the pile, and there is a generous handful of coins in one of them. I change quickly, the soft woven fabric luxurious against my skin. My sandals get wrapped up in the rough cloth of the robe I'd been wearing, and that becomes my pillow. Better to nap in the sunlight and walk through the night, where I can run from my night-horrors without anyone to see me.

I curl up in the sunlight with my eyepiece in one hand and the bundle of my robe cushioning my head. Just before sleep claims me, a warning twinge from my ear reminds me that sleeping on my left side isn't a good idea. I roll over, and let the world fade out.  
  
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The sun is close to setting when I wake from my nap. I clean my eyepiece with one corner of my shirt and pick up the bundle of my robe, shaking away the remnants of nightmares as I return to the road and resume traveling. With all the walking I did before I found Kanan, it's not difficult to zone out and not think about what I'm doing beyond making sure I don't wander off the road. I have no way of knowing how far I've gone; the only time I ever traveled this road before, I was unaware of almost everything around me.

Darkness falls softly, making it even easier to ignore my surroundings and just follow the road mindlessly. It's hard to pay attention to what you can't see, after all. The sounds of the local wildlife and the wind, the light of moon and stars, all these help hold the hallucinations at bay for a while. However, it is just a matter of time before unsteady footsteps begin shuffling up behind me. I quicken my pace and after a while, it seems that I have outdistanced it – but then I hear the footsteps again, closer. Again, I pick up the pace, and again, it seems to work for a time.

By the time the footsteps catch up again, the anxiety is starting to flag. There is only so long one can be fearful without anything to feed that fear. No matter whose corpse it is following me, there is nothing more I could possibly be doing to uphold my vows at this moment. I refuse to speed up again; as long as the corpse stays out of sight, or quiet, it does not cause the mindless panic it is capable of. There is an excellent chance that my personal horrors will follow me for a long, long time to come, and unless I feel like explaining my actions – which I don’t – I will need to learn to live with the accusations they hurl at me.

Resolutely, I maintain my pace. If the horror behind me spurs me on and gets me to Gojyo’s sooner, what’s the harm? As long as I don’t exhaust myself and pass out on the road, of course. Paced by the unknown specter behind me, I keep walking towards the lights of a small village that have appeared in the distance. My stomach reminds me pointedly that I have had nothing to eat yet today, and the constant exercise of the day has nibbled steadily away at my small reserve of chi. I can not count on my chi to sustain me through the night. Luckily, it is still a few hours to midnight, and there is likely to be a tavern still open. I pick up my pace a tiny bit more, as does my undead shadow.

When I reach the tiny village, there is indeed a tavern still open. The light that spills out when I open the door banishes whichever hallucinatory corpse was following me, and with a sigh of relief I let the door close behind me. The serving girl waves me to an empty table while she delivers plates and mugs, then comes over to see what I want. Given the options of bread and a slice of roast, or a bowl of turnip soup, my choice is obvious. Two coins from my tiny stash pass from my hand to hers, and she returns with a generous bowl of thin turnip soup. She comes back to check on me a few times while I eat, no doubt hoping I’ll spend more coin on watered-down ale, or wine, or her. As the other patrons leave in twos and threes to seek their beds, she asks huffily if I need _anything_ else from her at all.

“Well,” I say hesitantly, and she leans forward hopefully. “…I could use a haircut.”

She blinks at me a moment, eyes flicking from my apologetic smile to my shaggy hair, curling up against the collar of my shirt. “It won’t be but a kitchen knife,” she warns, “but I’ll do it.” She names a small fee.

“A kitchen knife is still better than what I can do on my own,” I assure her, taking out the coins and handing them to her.

She nods. “That’s true. Come on back, I’ll do what I can for you.”

I drink the remains of my soup and follow her into the kitchen, where she sits me on a stool and picks up a wicked-looking paring knife.

“What do you need cut?”

“If you could just cut the back short…?” The hair curling against the collar of my shirt is irritating even without the hypersensitivity of excess chi.

Bit by bit, she takes hold of clumps of my hair and shears it off. I can almost feel the blade against the back of my neck at times, and it takes an effort to sit perfectly still. She hums softly as she saws away at my hair, working her way up the back of my head. Finally, she puts the knife down and lifts a gleaming copper kettle down from its hook.

“Got no mirror,” she says by way of explanation, and hands me a large cleaver with a broad blade before holding the kettle up behind me so I can see her work in the reflective surfaces.

With the handle of the knife a disturbingly familiar weight in my hand, I lift the blade and look at my reflection. I catch a glimpse of the back of my head, hair neatly cut short, and hurriedly put the knife back down before the memories of what I did with a similar blade can overwhelm me.

“Ah, thank you.” I stand and bow to her, not meeting her confused gaze. “I’ve quite a ways to go yet, so I’ll take my leave of you. Have a pleasant night.”

The tavern is empty when I pass through it, and let myself out into the night. A breath of cold air blows down the back of my now-exposed neck, and I turn up the collar of my shirt before continuing down the road Sanzo said would lead to Gojyo’s village. I am several miles down the road before I realize that I’ve left my robe and sandals in the tavern, but they’re not worth going back for.

The hallucinations come again as soon as the light from the village has faded, bolder now that the memories of blood and rain and stone are gnawing at me. And, of course, my chi starts to lap against me now that I have eaten. Each spectral accusation, be it Sanzo warning me of dire things happening to him now that I am not there or Kanan’s laments – Gojyo’s corpse is absent, but that comes as no surprise – causes me to break into a near-run to get away from that particular horror. Once I can no longer hear the accusation, I slow to a fast walk, shoulders hunched against both the cold and the next manifestation. I have never had to bear them for this long before, and when the sky lightens enough to banish them for the night, the relief nearly causes me to weep. It is mental exhaustion rather than physical that causes me to duck into a copse of trees and prop myself against one, facing east so that the rising sun will wake me.

It’s not exactly a nap, more like complete mental shut-down. On some level, I am still aware of my surroundings, but all conscious thought ceases entirely until the sun burns into my eyes and brings me back to myself. Somewhat rested, I take to the road again and resume walking.

It’s only a few hours before another village appears in the distance. I can’t be certain, having never seen it from outside, but it appears to be the one in which Gojyo makes his home. Anticipation causes me to hurry again. How should I do this? Should I go straight to Gojyo’s house? He’s not likely to be out and about this early, and possibly not even awake yet if he was up late last night. It might be better for me to stop at the market and pick up something for breakfast before knocking on Gojyo's door.

When I follow the dusty road into the small town, I follow the buzz of chattering voices to the public market and wander among the carts and stalls of produce. No one gives me a second look, but then again, the doctor is really the only other one who saw me when I was here. Neither my eyepiece nor my inhibitors draw any attention and I find myself perusing potatoes and carrots just for the novelty of not being glared at or watched with disdain.

As I turn away from the carrots, a patch of bobbing red catches my eye. At first, it looks like a giant tomato or apple, but then my mind catches up to what my eyes are telling me, and I can't quite keep the mischievous smile from my face.

Mindfulness; be aware of everyone around me. I dodge shoppers and flow through the crowd, twisting smoothly to maneuver through narrow spaces between people, never taking my eyes off of my target. He saunters down the street before stopping at one  stall laden with bright red apples. As silently as possible, I slip into the empty spot next to him just as he hefts one apple contemplatively.

“Miss? Give me one of these,” he says, as though the simple fruit were something of unfathomable importance.

“It’s a beautiful red,” I say, picking up an apple of my own. “Isn't it, Gojyo?”

I turn my head slightly to watch his reaction. He doesn't disappoint me. The apple drops from his hand, and his cigarette nearly falls as well. He stares at me in shock, mouth slack, cigarette hanging awkwardly from his lower lip. Then he points at me with his now-free hand, mouth working wildly, still unable to form words. His gestures and attempts to speak get more frantic and comical; he jumps around and stamps his feet, anger and joy and shock chasing each other around his face as his tries to re-arrange his features enough to display them all.

Finally, after nearly braining a random pedestrian, he manages to gasp out “...that stinking monk!” He runs his hands through his _very_ short hair, cigarette abandoned on the ground. “He said you were dead! I'm going to _kill_ him!”

My smile, which had been simple amusement, broadens slightly at his exasperation. “Ah, if we're going back to Chang An, can we get breakfast first? I've been walking all night, and I'd like a chance to rest.”

Gojyo's expression settles into a foolish grin, and he turns back to the lady running the apple stall. She is watching us with interest, no doubt highly amused by the display we have just put on. “Miss, give me four, instead.” The purchase is concluded quickly, and Gojyo slings the arm holding the bag over his shoulder and drapes the other arm on mine. “I'm treating,” he says in a no-nonsense tone as he leads me down the street, “But only because I thought you were dead. You're on your own next time.” The giddiness in his voice isn’t quite hidden under his tough-guy tone.

We make small talk over fruit and eggs, Gojyo talking more than me, and leave for Chang on when we finish eating. The road is much more pleasant to travel on during the day. Gojyo regales me with tales of what happened after I tried to kill myself, complete with Sanzo cracking his ribs and how much of an annoyance it was to be ordered to bed for a week with no one to keep him company. He rants about Sanzo's cryptic visit one rainy night, and how the priest simply said that Cho Gonou was dead, and something about Buddhists. He does not speak of what his day-to-day life was like, or why he has cut his hair short.

My vows now tie me to Gojyo as well as Sanzo; it is my responsibility to try to understand both of them so that I can be alert for any indication that something is wrong, and do my best to keep from causing them trouble. I listen intently to Gojyo, both to his words and the things he does not say. For all that I lived in his house for a month, I know very little about him. My smile tightens momentarily; I have no doubt that I will have plenty of time to come to understand him.

We stop for the night in the same little town I passed through last night, and part of the cache Sanzo gifted me with goes to pay for the room while Gojyo buys dinner. He strikes up a few games of cards with the other patrons of the tavern, more comfortable in this setting than I've ever seen him. I don't join him in either cards or drinking, but I don't let him out of my sight either and several times, I catch him glancing over at me as if to reassure himself that I am still there. When the crowd starts to break up for the night, we retire to our room. This  tavern apparently compromises on single rooms versus doubles by just putting double beds in every room, but Gojyo doesn't seem to care that we will have to share a bed. After all, his bed is half the size, and we both managed to sleep in it.

Given the quality of the mattress, we both opt to sleep in our clothes for extra protection. Gojyo flops carelessly onto the right side of the bed, asleep in seconds. I debate a second, then blow out the candle and lay my eyepiece on the table by it. The night is chilly enough that I crawl under the blanket on the left side of the bed, the scratchy wool almost comforting after my time in the temple. Gojyo smells of cheap whisky and smoke; combined with the sound of his breathing, this holds the hallucinations at bay. I drift in and out of nightmares for a while, until something jolts me out of them and I come awake with adrenaline coursing through my blood. Mattress beneath me, rushes pressing into my right side, something pressed against my back. I hold my breath and listen, but all I hear is Gojyo's breathing. Whatever woke me, it – thankfully – is not one of my night horrors.

The thing pressed against me shifts, and at the same time, Gojyo grunts in his sleep. Repressing the urge to laugh at myself, I relax slowly. I shouldn't have been surprised; Gojyo is unused to there being someone in his bed and not holding them. Granted, when it was me, he did it to make sure I didn’t thrash in my sleep and re-open my wound. As though to echo my thought, Gojyo shifts again and drapes his arm over me, fingers crawling across my stomach until his hand covers my scar.

_~If I ever met a man in my position...~_

If it had been me walking in the rain that night, and I had found a mortally wounded man and devoted a month of my life to nursing him back to health, I'm sure I would be protective of his continued wellbeing. That's not to say that having Sanzo and Gojyo concerned for me is entirely a comfortable thing; quite the opposite, in fact. I spent far too many years convinced that the world didn't care about me to be able to be at ease with other people taking a positive interest in me. It is a supreme irony that I hold my worthless life forfeit, and will be taking care of myself only because it is part of my penance. I smile, the expression one of brittle pain. I have no choice, my life is not my own. I am only alive to atone for my sins in whatever form that atonement should take – and the primary expression of that is to live in such a way that I cause no trouble to the ones whose dead faces stare back at me from the silent darkness. It would be a violation of oaths I cannot break to cause harm to myself, either through action or inaction.

Despite myself, the familiar constriction of Gojyo's arm around me and the warmth of the wool blanket conspire to lull me back to sleep.  
  
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Chang An is a huge city, and despite my impromptu tours, I am not familiar with it at all. Gojyo stuffs his hands into his pockets and glances around, uncomfortable in the strange city.

“Okay, now what?” He looks at me for direction.

With a certainty I don’t feel, I lead the way deeper into the city. The Temple of the Setting Sun is visible, being on a hill, and I hope that we don’t have to detour _too_ badly to get there. Luckily, the temple must have been here before the city got so big; we only have one moment of confusion before turning down a broad street that leads right to the foot of the temple steps.

The guards at the top of the stairs actually take notice and recognize me. They inform us politely but firmly that we must wait in an antechamber while word is sent to the honored Genjo Sanzo that he has visitors. As it turns out, we don’t have to wait at all. Sanzo is sitting at a wooden table when we arrive in the designated waiting room, and Goku hops down from a bench to greet us.

“Wow! Haven’t seen you in a while!” He looks back and forth between me and Gojyo, and it’s hard to tell which one of us he’s talking to.

“Hello,” I say, noncommittally, before turning my not-quite-impersonal smile on the familiar surly form of Sanzo. “Pardon me for bothering you.”

“Hey, what’s with your head, Gojyo? It looks weird!”

I try not to laugh at Gojyo’s irritation. Once he discovered that his amateur haircut had resulted in a nearly-bald patch that got sunburned, he wrapped his jacket around his head and it _does_ look rather awkward.

“Shut up, monkey,”  he growls. “Here’s some food.” He shoves the bag of apples at Goku, who doesn’t seem to care about Gojyo’s attempted rudeness.

“Oh! Thank you!” Goku practically rips the bag open as Gojyo stalks over to where Sanzo has been trying to ignore us. “Hey, apples! They look good!” He begins eating as though he hasn’t seen food in a week – but from what I’ve seen, Goku _always_ attacks food like that.

Sanzo does not look up as Gojyo stops beside him. After a moment, Gojyo shifts to a more belligerent pose. “Hey, you tricked me, you phony monk.”

“What are you talking about?”

“What am I talking about?” Gojyo repeats, incredulous.

Sanzo moves finally, gesturing in a way that manages to be both condescending and triumphant. “Buddhism forbids killing,” he says slowly, as though to a small child. “Don’t tell me you thought we’d summarily execute a criminal?” The irritation in his voice is not directed at Gojyo, but the priests who tried to make his words a lie. “All you had to do was think a little.”

Gojyo twitches, and Sanzo smirks at having successfully goaded him.

Goku, who had been watching  the whole exchange, pauses in devouring two apples at once and looks up at me. “Then, are you free now?”

I smile at him. “Yes, thanks to Sanzo’s support.” The priest grunts and glares off to one side. Remembering the dawn-to-dusk meetings Sanzo went through for me, I allow some of my gratitude into my voice. “He interceded on my behalf to let me discard the name of Cho Gonou and start a new life.” Goku surely knows this, but Gojyo doesn’t – the whole way here, he never even asked what had happened to me since my suicide attempt.

“Then,” Goku asks, practically hanging off my words, “What’s your name now?”

I shoot Sanzo a startled glance, and am rewarded by a brief look of immeasurable smugness. How did he manage to go for four days without telling Goku?

“Hakkai.” My voice catches in my throat, as the reality of having a name crashes down upon me again and makes me giddy with elation. “Cho Hakkai.” I savor the feel of the syllables in my mouth, somehow grateful that both Sanzo and Gojyo are there to hear the first time my full name leaves my lips.

“Hakkai…” Goku tests the name out, then brightens. “Yeah, it fits you better than the name you had before!”

His enthusiasm is such that I have to fight to keep from laughing; behind him, Sanzo twitches.

“Do you think so?” I ask mildly, remembering my assertion that my name still fits despite the meaning Sanzo had intended for it.

Gojyo smirks. “Heh, you probably can’t remember it with your deficient brain.”

Goku rises to the bait, and the two of them squabble. I wonder briefly if Gojyo picked a fight to keep his image of uncaring toughness, the way Sanzo tries to keep everyone at arms’ length.

“So.” Sanzo’s voice is almost inaudible over the commotion the other two are making, and I sidle closer. “What are you going to do now?”

That same tension is there, just like when he asked what I was going to do once the temple released me. If I were the one that had intervened to save a man’s life, and tried to put the pieces of him back together, I would no doubt want him to find someplace to stay for a while where I could keep an eye on him without appearing to hover like a mother hen, someplace where he would be with at least one person who would also watch out for him. Somehow, I don’t think Gojyo would object to my plans, even though I haven’t mentioned it to him yet.

“I’ll be rooming with Gojyo,” I say quietly, then force my face and voice to conform to Right Speech. “…because he doesn’t even remember the day for trash pickup. He just worries me to no end, so…” Sanzo snorts in amusement at the sing-song, mother hen tone I wound up with somehow.

“Shut up,” he mutters quietly, but from the distracted tone, it doesn’t sound like he’s talking to me. “This is what a really loud vice sounds like. He’s less than a monkey.”

I’m not sure I was supposed to hear that. Even if I was, I don’t know what to say to it – but I get the feeling that Sanzo just trusted me with something, and is waiting for some kind of answer. He hasn’t relaxed any at hearing that I intend to room with Gojyo, and I wonder if I misinterpreted what he wanted to hear from me.

_~If you die now…~_

My promise.

“I’ve seen so much death, but it’s so strange…” My voice is every bit as quiet as his was. Outwardly, we’re both watching Goku and Gojyo fighting, as though by not looking at each other we can pretend that neither of us has said anything. “Now, I’m afraid to die.”

There’s a kind of shock at hearing those words come out of my mouth, but they’re true. I haven’t even begun to atone for my sins, and the thought of Kanan turning away from me in disgust at the blood on my hands frightens me more than I’d ever care to admit. Tension drains out of Sanzo at hearing my confession, but we are both spared having to make any sort of response by Goku suddenly tackling me from behind.

“Hakkai! I’ve got your name memorized now,” he declares, almost accusing me, “so you better not change it anymore!”

Does he even understand what I went through for _this_ name change?

“All right,” I say soothingly, hiding my thoughts behind Right Speech.

Gojyo wanders over, trying to act casual, and a predatory smirk flits across Sanzo’s face.

“So, is that haircut your way of putting the past behind you?”

I listen as intently as I can with Goku still hanging from my back. I know nothing about Gojyo’s past; what is it that Sanzo knows? What could he have possibly learned in the less than a day that they have spent around each other?

“Nope, I’m probably the same as him; just a futile struggle.” There’s only the barest hint of old pain in Gojyo’s voice.

“Life is basically a futile struggle until you die, anyway.”

_~…will have failed at everything important I have tried to accomplish in my life.~_

From the smug amusement on Gojyo’s face, I don’t think he was listening. Sanzo snaps at him, irritated. “What?”

“Do I look good like this?” Gojyo practically purrs, somehow managing to visibly grate on Sanzo’s nerves.

“It’s a little better than the obnoxious long hair.” Sanzo is obviously annoyed, and trying to hide it.

Gojyo stretches and struts away. “Then, I think I’ll grow it out again.” He stops and grins at the glowering priest. “I’m pervy, so it grows fast, too.”

“You trying to pick a fight?!”

Gojyo ignores him and drapes his arms around Goku’s and my shoulders, effectively changing the subject by mentioning food. Goku enthusiastically agrees to the idea of eating, and together they browbeat Sanzo into joining us for lunch. The sun is shining when we leave the dim antechamber, and that sense of universal _rightness_ returns as I breathe in the cool, clean air. Gojyo and Goku tease each other good-naturedly in front of me; Sanzo paces to my left in his shell of studied surliness. The sun is warm, the air is cool, and I have a name. The only thing that could improve this moment would be if Kanan were here. The complete acceptance of nirvana allows me to summon the memory of her song, reveling in the _rightness_ of the sweet pain it brings.

_~Just hold on tight, because if you close your eyes, look inside yourself, you'll feel a heartbeat. Yes, I want you to believe in the future. You can take another look from the other side.~_

In this perfect moment, I can feel my heart beating within me. I know that this moment will pass, and my future is uncertain, but right now…none of that matters.

Cho Gonou is dead. My name is Cho Hakkai.

 

۞


End file.
